


His Spare Watson

by Englishtutor



Series: The Other Doctor Watson [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mary and Sherlock solve a crime, Mary attempts being ordinary, Mary saves Sherlock's life, Rumours abound, Sherlock nearly gets Mary killed, The Press discover Mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:43:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6524377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mary Watson fills in for an absent John as Sherlock's assistant on a case in Cornwall. Will she prove to be as invaluable as John? Or will she prove a hindrance, instead? When Mary assisted Sherlock on a murder case, he put her life in danger with a risky experiment. Will John let him get away with being careless with Mary's life?  Based on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's story "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "I Need an Assistant"

This story may be read alone, but would be better understood if read after my stories entitled “Mary”, “One to Spare” and “Red-Handed”. I’ve based this on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s short story “The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot”—quotes from his story are indicated by italics. My apologies to this great man for mangling his lovely plot to my own selfish ends.  
000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

I need an assistant. SH

You’ve confused your Watsons again. I’m the female one, remember? MW

John is not picking up. I need an assistant. SH

And I need to know this, why? MW

I have a case. I need an assistant. SH

John is keynote speaker at a Medical Conference this week, as you well know, my lovely idiot. MW

I know. You’ll do. SH

Are you asking me to be John for you? MW

I need an assistant. SH

Why would you think I’d want to be a John-substitute? What’s in it for me? MW

It could be dangerous. SH

When and where? MW

Paddington Station. 07:06 a.m. Pack a bag. We’re going to Cornwall. SH

000000000000000000000000

Return my wife alive and undamaged or I’ll know the reason why! JW  
Sherlock read and re-read this text from John as the train pulled out of Paddington Station and began its mind-numbing five-plus-hour trek to Penzance (with one wearying change in Newton Abbot). He hated train journeys, and one reason he required an assistant in this case was to keep him from going completely mad on the way to the crime scene. John had accepted this honour of being the keynote speaker at a Medical Conference because he knew the exposure would help bring them more private casework with which to pay the bills. Sherlock wished John wouldn’t worry about bills. He would really rather do without food and sundries if it meant John not being away for a week. He looked at Mary, sitting beside him by the window, reading an e-mail on her mobile and chuckling. He leaned over towards her to read what was amusing her so. She tilted it away from him and continued to scroll down. He tried to grab the phone away from her. She smacked his hand and scolded.

“Honestly, Sherlock, are you three years old?” she laughed.

“Do only three-year-olds get bored?” he demanded.

She shot him an inscrutable look. “All right, then: here.” She handed him her phone, smirking. “Just remember that eavesdroppers hear no good about themselves.” 

The e-mail was from John. Sherlock read:

“Job Description for Sherlock’s Assistant:  
Administer medical help as needed.  
Provide expert medical opinions on crime scene as required.”

So far, so good. Very straightforward. Sherlock approved.

“Serve as referee between Sherlock and any law enforcement authorities.  
Interview witnesses. DO NOT allow Sherlock to speak to anyone unsupervised.  
Reinterpret insulting comments as unfortunately misunderstood and potentially valuable observations.”

Sherlock felt his hackles go up over these three statements; and yet, in all fairness, he had to admit to the real need for such interference. He read on:

“Try to prevent him taking off on his own. Wear running shoes to this end.  
Watch his back—I hope you remembered the you-know-what.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow over this last one. He knew John had been teaching Mary how to fire his (illegal) weapon. Was Mary proficient enough for it to be of use? He wondered.

“Try to get him to eat and sleep occasionally.  
Pay for everything. KEEP YOUR RECEIPTS!  
Prevent his getting bored at all costs.  
Keep copious notes for blog entry.”

He handed the phone back, sobered. He knew John was invaluable to him, but he’d never seen all that John did for him spelled out so succinctly before. Mary smiled affectionately. “Did he send you any instructions on my care and feeding?” she asked.

“Just one.” He gave her his mobile and she read the text message, still on the screen. She chuckled. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t let him hurt you,” she said, patting his arm reassuringly. Then she added thoughtfully, “Of course, if I’m dead, I can’t do anything to stop him killing you. I suppose it’s in your own best interests to keep me alive.” Her dimples deepened sweetly.

Sherlock frowned. He had never felt responsible for anyone else’s safety before--not even John’s. He was prepared to do anything he had to in order to prevent John being hurt, but his friend was so much more proficient in protecting himself than Sherlock was that it rarely was an issue. In fact, there were those who considered John to be Sherlock’s personal bodyguard as well as personal physician and personal biographer. Now Sherlock looked sidelong at Mary and wondered if she would, in fact, be a sufficient substitute for her husband. She was a good doctor and would be a good note-taker for the blog; she could undoubtedly intervene in any verbal squabbles with others. But physically, he wondered if she was right for the job. She was shorter than John and slightly built. He thought that if she were in a wrestling match with a new-born kitten, the outcome might be dubious.

The odd thing was, this worried him. He really didn’t want anything bad to happen to Mary. At first, when John started dating Mary, Sherlock had just thought of her as an extension of John—as if John had inexplicably elected to grow a second head. Sherlock respected John enough to accept his bizarre decision and incorporated this new development into his life. But soon, Mary had asserted herself in his mind as an important individual in her own right. Sherlock knew exactly when this had happened: when he had accidentally stabbed John in the back, Mary-- instead of becoming angry or hysterical--had calmly taken care of Sherlock. She understood how devastated he was, and put her own feelings aside to help him deal with the situation. Sherlock had come to love John as the only person who had troubled himself to understand him; now Mary had also proven herself to be such a friend. Sherlock would do anything for a friend who truly tried to understand him. It made him feel a heavy weight of responsibility for her safety—a new feeling for him.

Mary had finished writing her e-mail in response to John’s list. “Okay, now, tell me about this case,” she said.

"Three siblings, alone in a room, poisoned by means unknown. The sister is dead. The two brothers are comatose. A third brother swears he left them alive and well, perfectly normal, at half past ten the night before. They were found this way at eight in the morning, still sitting precisely as they were when the brother left.”

“No drugs in their systems?”

“No known drugs were discernible.”

“So, the police must suspect the third brother, yeah?”

“Of course. But with no cause of death and no motive, they can’t make an arrest. And it is always a mistake, before gathering all the facts, to draw any sort of conclusions prematurely.”

“Because one tends to see only the facts that substantiate one’s theory, and ignore those that won’t support it,” Mary concluded.

Sherlock was surprised into smiling. “John’s been teaching you my methods,” he commented. A little muscle in Mary’s cheek twitched, a sure sign that she was irritated. Sherlock was puzzled. “What?”

Mary sighed. “No, John has NOT been ‘teaching’ me anything. First of all, John is not the only intelligent non-genius on earth, you realize! I am hardly a drooling idiot.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but she held up the index finger of her right hand, and somehow this rendered him incapable of speech. “Second of all, John and I do not spend our free time talking about you, or your methods, or The Work, or crime, or anything whatever to do with you.”

A burning question swelled within Sherlock’s chest, bursting to be asked, but he dared not speak until Mary lowered her threatening finger. What else of interest could two people talk about, other than The Work? “What DO you talk about, then?” he demanded when at last she allowed him to respond.

This dispelled her irritation, and she laughed at him fondly. “You’re so cute,” she chuckled.

She spent the rest of the trip trying to keep him occupied with deducing their fellow travellers (quietly!); encouraging him to describe his latest experiments; reading and laughing about comments on John’s blog; beguiling him with sandwiches and biscuits for lunch. She also had to deflect four separate admirers (three male, one female) who tried to foist their attentions upon her and two passers-by who obviously tried to grope her on their way down the aisle while trying to make it seem like an accident. She fended the intruders off with grace and good humour; but their impertinence annoyed Sherlock more than he could have imagined. Why should an intelligent, compassionate young woman like Mary have to deal with such impudence? Clearly none of these shameless idiots were worth a second of her time. Sherlock was beginning to see that protecting Mary might consist of more than simply deflecting bullets and preventing her being kidnapped by mad bombers. 

He remembered that John had once given a man a thorough thrashing for insulting Mary with lewd suggestions and wandering hands. Would she expect Sherlock to defend her in this way? She seemed to be dealing with things perfectly well on her own, without a show of violence. Sherlock sighed. This friendship lark was more difficult to navigate with Mary than with John. He hoped that protecting Mary would not prove a distraction to solving this case.


	2. "John Will Kill Us"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is rude and Mary is charming.

At the Penzance station, Sherlock had really intended to help with the luggage. He really had. But as they walked out onto the platform, he noticed a placard with his name on it and his feet just started walking in that direction, inadvertently leaving Mary to deal with the luggage on her own. The placard was held by a young PC, complete with uniform, standing by a patrol car (much to Sherlock’s chagrin); 20 or 21 years of age; recently graduated; still lived with his mother; had two cats; smoked too much, tried to hide it from said Mum; overly-enthusiastic fanboy. This insufferable child introduced himself (Sherlock could not be bothered to remember what he said) and blathered on and on about how honoured he was to meet his idol. Sherlock tuned it all out and just waited for Mary to come and deal with the boy for him. He was thankful to John for many reasons, to be sure, but Sherlock would never forgive the man for making him famous. It was so tedious.

Mary hauled their two cases up to the patrol car, that little muscle in her usually patient face twitching with annoyance. “I’m your doctor, not your bellboy,” she muttered at him under her breath and dropping his bag on his foot. “Lazy git!”

“My associate, Dr Watson,” Sherlock presented her to the PC grandly, hoping to deflect her irritation into proper channels. It was the boy’s fault for distracting him, after all.

“Dr Watson! We weren’t expecting you to come, too! I’m so chuffed to meet you! I’m your biggest fan! Alec Gates, my name is,” the young man practically swooned. 

“Erm, thank you.” Mary offered her hand, and he held it much too long for manners. 

“I admit, I always thought the famous Dr Watson was a man,” Alec said breathlessly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I always thought that, as well,” he muttered sarcastically.

Mary opened her mouth to explain, but the hyperactive PC was off, shoving their cases into the backseat of the patrol car and then opening the front passenger door with a dramatic swoop, gesturing Mary inside. She glanced at Sherlock, who was too amused to interfere, and gracefully slid inside. This left the driver’s side rear seat for Sherlock to fold his long legs into; but the discomfort was worth the show.

Alec flung himself into the driver’s seat and they were off. “I’m to take you to the morgue in Helston first, and then on to the crime scene. The witnesses are meeting us there at 16:00. Dr Watson! I read your blog all the time! I’ve got all the cases memorized. I’ve commented more often than any other follower of yours. Perhaps you remember me: I comment under ‘numberonefan’.”

Mary hid a smile. “Yes, I do remember you, in fact. I’m glad you enjoy the blog. But really. . . .”

“The inspector took the liberty of renting a cottage on Poldhu Bay for Mr. Holmes. It’s a one bedroom—I hope that’s all right. We weren’t expecting you, Doctor, like I said. I suppose other arrangements can be made.”

“I’m sure we can work things out, dear,” Mary said impatiently. Sherlock was impressed with the condescending way in which she pronounced the word “dear”. Strong men would be stung by it. Lesser men would be utterly cowed. The young PC was oblivious. 

“I was thinking, maybe you’d like to go to dinner with me tonight, and, you know, talk and stuff,” the idiot child continued. “I’d really like a chance to get to know you better.”

“Sorry, I really can’t, Mr. Gates.” Mary waved her left hand in an emphatic gesture, giving the boy every opportunity to view her wedding ring. He could not or would not see it. He also would not give up.

“You can call me Alec,” he said generously. “Hey, I never caught your first name.”

“Didn’t you? And I thought you were a great fan of my blog?” she said superciliously, with another grand sweep of her left hand. She had clearly had enough of this nonsense.

“Well, I assume that’s a pen name, seeing as you’re a girl.”

A girl! Sherlock smirked. Mary was so out of this boy’s league—classier, more mature, and infinitely more intelligent. 

Alec continued to prove his cluelessness. “If you can’t have dinner tonight, maybe we can have coffee in the morning. I never thought I’d meet such a pretty detective.”

“You should meet my husband. He’s even prettier than I am,” Mary replied.

Sherlock was amused to see the boy visibly deflate. “Your husband?”

“My husband. John Watson.”

The boy was covered in disappointment. “You’re not the real Dr Watson?” he asked, heartbroken.

“I am one of the Doctors Watson,” Mary assured him gently. “I have been trying to tell you that all along.”

To his credit, the boy took it well. “I apologize for the misunderstanding,” he said humbly. “I’ve just been so . . . chuffed, you know . . . about meeting you, I mean. I got carried away.”

“All forgotten. Let’s just go on from here, shall we, Alec? My name is Mary, by the way. And you may call that fellow behind you Sherlock.”

Suddenly Alec remembered that he had the famous Sherlock Holmes in his patrol car. He began to fire off questions about old cases, but fortunately for them all he did not seem to require answers. His soliloquy lasted the rest of the way to Helston.

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

The deceased, Brenda Tregannis-Sterndale, had been a beautiful woman verging on middle age. Her dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even in death, but there lingered upon it something of that convulsion of horror which had been her last emotion. Sherlock knew that expression well: the distress of trying desperately to draw a breath into uncooperative lungs. 

“Her airways were not obstructed in any way?” he asked and was assured by the pathologist that they were not.

“Lungs are clear, also. No known drugs in her system, either. Not in her digestive tract, not in her nose or throat. No hypodermic marks anywhere,” the pathologist continued, as Sherlock studied the body in silence. He motioned to Mary to give her assessment. She did a quick exam and sighed.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. She obviously died of asphyxiation, but I can’t tell why. There’s no bruising around the nose and mouth, no marks of strangulation, no sign of a physical struggle. How she let herself smother without moving from her chair is beyond me. Most people would have flung themselves about madly, trying to breathe.”

“Maybe someone sucked all the air out of the room,” Alec Gates suggested.

“Don’t try to think, PC. It’s a pointless exercise,” Sherlock snapped.

Mary put a hand on his arm. “Manners, Sherlock,” she murmured. To Alec she said, “He needs silence to work at his best. Don’t take it personally.”

Anyone who had ever read John’s blog was aware of Sherlock’s eccentricities. Alec nodded sagely. He was seeing a great man at work. It was an honour to be insulted by Sherlock Holmes.

“This is useless. Take us to the scene of the crime, PC,” Sherlock said at last, accepting a copy of the official autopsy report.

He fairly flew out of the room but stopped abruptly at the sight of a distinguished-looking, middle-aged gentleman who sat disconsolately on a plastic chair down the hallway. “Who is that?” he demanded.

Alec looked startled. “That’s Mr. Sterndale! I thought he was in South Africa,” he said exclaimed quietly. “I guess the Inspector got hold of him before he took off. The deceased’s husband,” he added by way of explanation. “He was in London the night she died, waiting for his flight from Heathrow yesterday. He imports cultural novelties. Sells ‘em to rich folk. Quite a market for third world junk, I think.”

Sherlock eyed Mr. Sterndale carefully but did not bother to approach him. Everything he needed to know was there in the cut of the man’s suit, the state of his shoes, and his haircut. His business was adequate, but he depended on his wife’s money for little luxuries; he’d had an affair—no, many affairs—not serious; heavy cigar smoker; came to the morgue straight from the train station. “He hasn’t been home since he arrived from London,” he concluded. “He’s of little use to us at this point in time. Let’s go.”

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Tredannick Wollas, a small hamlet near Poldhu Bay, was home to a few hundred permanent residents and a large number of vacation cottages which could be rented by the day, week, month, or season. Formerly a mining town, many of the inhabitants of the area now depended on tourism for their living since the last mine was closed in the late 1990’s.

The family of the deceased were among those in the tourist trade. Brenda Tregannis-Sterndale and her three brothers owned a good deal of real estate in the Lizard Peninsula, including a resort hotel and a great many individual rental cottages, both bed-and-breakfast and self-catering. It was at one of these rental cottages that the sister had died and the two brothers had sunk into comas overnight.

Present at this cottage, awaiting Sherlock’s arrival on a spacious front porch, were Inspector Parker of the local police; Dr Richards, the Tregannis’ attending physician; Mrs. Porter, head of the cleaning crew for the rental properties; the local vicar, a Mr. Roundhay; and Mortimer Tregannis, the last remaining conscious member of his family.

“Mr. Holmes. Thank you for coming to our aid,” Inspector Parker began, shaking Sherlock’s hand. “And Dr Watson. We weren’t expecting you. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“This is a most extraordinary and tragic affair, Mr. Holmes,” the little vicar added. “In all England, you are the one man we need.”

Sherlock despised niceties. “Clearly, since you have both had this story second-hand, perhaps Mr. Tregannis should do the honour of telling me what happened,” he said impatiently. 

“Manners,” Mary breathed for only Sherlock to hear. “What Sherlock means is, he would like to get started as quickly as possible,” she told those gathered.

“Of course, we agree,” Inspector Parker said genially, and Mr. Tregannis leaned forward in his chair.

"I. . . I hardly know how to start,” he stammered, his face marked with grief.

“I suggest, at the beginning. For example, what were you all doing here when clearly none of you lives here? This is a rental cottage.”

Tregannis nodded. “Yes, it’s one of the properties we own. Our parents were deeply invested in real estate, Mr. Holmes, and when they died they left all of their properties to the four of us. Together, we have turned them into a decent living. Each of us lives on the site of one of our investments. George lives at the resort hotel. Owen lives by our rental cottages in Helston. I keep our properties at Mullion Cove. Brenda and her husband live here. We have six cottages in the Tredannick Wollas area. Of course, we see each other frequently—Lizard Peninsula isn’t huge--but every three months, we get together in one of our properties and talk business and play cards and catch up with each other. We are a close family. It was Brenda’s turn to host this time,” Tregannis’ voice broke. “I should have stayed here with them, but I was tired and wanted to sleep in my own bed. I left them at about 22:30. They were playing cards and laughing.” His voice trailed off.

"Show me,” Sherlock said abruptly. Mary nudged him. “Please show me where the tragedy took place, Inspector,” he amended, scowling at her.

It was a cosy sitting room of a four bedroom cottage, very roomy and comfortably appointed. Chairs and a sofa made a conversation area around the fireplace on one side, and a card table with four chairs around it stood on the other. The chairs had been pushed back, but otherwise the Inspector assured Sherlock that nothing had been touched. The playing cards still lay on the table as if the family had been interrupted in the middle of a game. The windows in the room were shut, but the curtains still open. The lights were still on, and the fireplace doors open, although the fire had long died out.

“Who found the bodies?” Sherlock demanded. Mrs. Porter stepped forward. “I did, Mr. Holmes. I came by to get started on the cleaning. This cottage was to be rented by another family yesterday. We have a great turn-over of guests in this area, and many who return year after year. We are very popular establishment.”

Sherlock waved popularity away impatiently. “Yes, yes, but what did you SEE? How were the bodies situated when you found them?”

Mrs. Porter walked around the card table, touching the chairs. “Brenda here, George here, and Owen here. They were slumped over as if they just fallen asleep where they sat. I was that upset, I passed right out on the floor when I saw them. I felt I couldn’t breathe properly. When I came back to myself, I called Mortimer immediately, and Doctor Richards. I didn’t touch anything.”

Mr. Tregannis nodded, “I came over as fast as I could. The doctor and I arrived at nearly the same time. They were sitting exactly as they were when I left them. It was . . . horrifying! Dreadful!”

“I sent for an ambulance immediately,” Dr Richards added. “There was nothing I could do for them, here.”

“Could the comas be caused by severe hypoxia?” Mary asked. 

“Certainly. All the symptoms are consistent with hypoxia,” Dr Richards nodded thoughtfully. “But how were they deprived of oxygen? There are no signs of choking or drugs of any kind.”

Sherlock steepled his hands and stood in silent thought. His eyes roamed the room, taking in every detail. Finally, he asked, “Your family were in good spirits when you left them?”

“Never better.”

“You aren’t aware of their being nervous or apprehensive about anything or anyone? They showed no apprehension of coming danger? They had no worries about the future whatsoever?”

“None.”

Sherlock picked up some papers on the end table near the sofa. “And yet, here are some business papers that show your properties in Mullion Cove are losing money. Apparently you have been mishandling the accounts and owe money to some questionable people, Mr. Tregannis. Your excessive drinking caused you to make poor decisions, perhaps?”

Mr. Tregannis gasped. “How could you tell all this from those papers?”

Sherlock snorted derisively. “Please,” he said snidely. “So you argued and finally left them in a huff. Did they threaten to take your share of the properties away from you?”

Mr. Tregannis paled and sat down heavily. “No, no, it wasn’t like that,” he said faintly.

The little vicar stepped up then. “You must understand, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregannis is under treatment for his . . . problem. He’s been through rehabilitation, and I am presently seeing him every day to help him continue to improve. He hasn’t had a drink in months.”

“They were upset,” Mr. Tregannis admitted. “I had made a bungle of it, I admit. I had hidden my failures from them for some time, and they were unhappy to learn the truth. And I was ashamed. I left because I could not face them. But they were giving me another chance. We were putting together a recovery plan.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock looked the man up and down thoughtfully. Then he swooped down at the fireplace and sniffed and poked the ashes. “You had a fire here last night.”

“Yes, the night was cool and damp.”

“And you used all the wood in your log carrier,” he indicated the empty canvas carrier on the floor beside the hearth.

“Yes, Owen put on the last of the logs just as I was leaving.”

Sherlock sighed. “I need a pack of cigarettes,” he muttered to himself. “No, I need three.” Aloud he pronounced, “Dr Watson and I would like to go on to our accommodations if you would be so kind, PC. I need to think.”

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Their cottage was much smaller than the one in which the Tregannis family tragedy had taken place. Sherlock frowned. One bedroom, one combination sitting room and kitchen, one loo. It was fine for him, but what about Mary? 

Mary seemed perfectly happy. “This is adorable!” she exclaimed. The small kitchen was stocked with a few foodstuffs for their use, and she crowed with happiness when she found the tea. “Oh, this will be very nice!” she assured Alec. “We’ll be quite comfortable here.”

It took several minutes to persuade the overly-helpful PC to leave. By that time, dusk was falling. “I’m taking a bath straight away,” Mary announced. “I feel entirely filthy. I’ll fix our dinner after.”

“Take your time. I need quiet to think,” Sherlock said tersely. He went out into the little garden in front of the cottage and sat on a bench, staring out into the gathering gloom on the moors.

But it was not to be. A figure approached down the lane, revealing itself to be the gentleman they had seen in Helston earlier that day. Sherlock rose to meet him.

“Mr. Sterndale,” he intoned. 

“Mr. Holmes,” the man replied. He had a cigar in his mouth, and he offered Sherlock one. Sherlock lit up gratefully. 

“I’m afraid my colleague will not approve,” he commented wryly.

“Yes, the beautiful Dr Watson,” Mr. Sterndale said. “PC Gates was telling me about her. I am all agog to meet her.”

Sherlock did not like the lascivious look in the man’s eye as he said this, and he was curious. Why should he care if a man looked lustfully at Mary? This is what it feels like to have a sister, he concluded, and was grateful that he’d spent his life till now without one. He did not like this feeling—this protective instinct that rose up in him. It was annoying.

“Mrs. Watson is indisposed,” he said dryly. “Have a seat out here, Mr. Sterndale, and tell me what brings you here.”

“Mrs. Watson, eh?” the insufferable letch grinned. “Looks after you, does she? Takes care of all your needs?”

“Dr Watson is generously committing her time here to helping solve the mystery of your wife’s death, Mr. Sterndale,” Sherlock said severely. “She and I could simply return to London if you feel this is not a noble cause.”

Mr. Sterndale, although he did not look truly abashed, at least had the decency to pretend to look abashed. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes, you are right, of course. My poor, poor Brenda. I came as soon as the vicar called me. A moment later and I would have been on the plane to South Africa.”

“I understand you buy trinkets in third world countries to sell at exorbitant mark-up prices,” Sherlock said, still irritated.

“Oh, yes, it’s an interesting trade. It’s amazing what people will pay for junk, if you advertise it just so.”

“And you were in London the night of this tragedy?”

“Yes. I had a flight out of Heathrow that day, so I spent the night in London. I took the first train back here as soon as I heard the news. I was hoping you could ease my mind by telling me if you have made any inroads into solving this mystery.”

Sherlock puffed on the cigar for a moment. “I have not cleared my mind entirely on the subject, but I have every hope of reaching a conclusion very soon. It would be premature to say more.”

“Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions point in any particular direction?”

“I can tell you nothing whatsoever.”

“Then I am wasting my time, and yours,” Mr. Sterndale sighed. He rose from the bench. “I suppose I will be seeing you and your Dr Watson another time, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock watched him leave, smoking and thinking furiously. He needed to follow the man surreptitiously. But what should he do about Mary? John he would have dragged along with him—directly from his bath if need be. But he was not sure about Mary. He told himself that he did not have time to wait for her to dress—but the truth was, he was afraid she might be hurt and could not bring himself to take the risk. After five minutes went by, he rose and followed his quarry, silent as the night.

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Three hours later, he walked into their little cottage and realized he had made a grave error in judgment. Mary was furious. He could tell this even before she turned around to face him, and when she did turn around, he also turned around to go back out the door again.

“Stop right there!” Mary said sternly. He stopped but did not turn around to face her. Mary never got angry with him, not really. This was new. He did not want to know what Mary’s wrath would be like.

“Where have you been? Why did you just swan off like that without a word? How am I supposed to watch your back if I don’t have any idea where your back is?”

“You were in the bath. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Voices carry through doors, Sherlock! You could have told me you were going. You could have left a note. You could have sent a text. You turned your phone off! You left the gun on the bed! Are we working together, or not? Because I thought you needed an assistant,” Mary was cooling off now, sitting in a chair and running her hand over her flushed face. He realized with a shock that she was not really angry at all, but afraid. It had never occurred to him that she would feel as responsible for his safety as he did about hers. 

“I was following a suspect. I didn’t have time to return to the cottage first. I had to turn my phone off in case a call should tip the man off that he was being followed. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I should hope not,” she huffed. “What on earth could I tell John if I lost you? What could I tell Mycroft?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Sherlock admitted. “I didn’t take you with me because I was afraid of what John would do if anything happened to you.”

Mary laughed suddenly, her good humour returning like the sun bursting through a storm cloud. “We’re in the same boat, aren’t we? If anything happens to one of us, John will kill the other. Either way, we’re both dead. We’re better off sticking together, don’t you think? At least, keep me in the loop, so I’ll know what’s going on, all right?”

Sherlock nodded and began making good on that promise at once by telling her about the visit by Mr. Sterndale. Mary listened as she heated up a tin of soup and cut sandwiches and heated the kettle.

“I followed him all the way to the cottage where his wife died. The curtains were still drawn aside, and I could see him examining the fireplace. Then he went home. I watched him sit and smoke cigars for a bit, but it seemed he was done for the night, so I came on back.”

Mary set a bowl of soup, a sandwich, and a cup of tea in front of him and thoughtfully bit into a sandwich herself. “Why the fireplace? They were sitting at the table on the other side of the room.”

“Why did Brenda die and not her brothers? She was closer to the fire than they were. That is the only difference in their situations.”

“There was something burning in the fireplace that caused this? What? And how did it get there?”

Sherlock shook his head. He needed to order his thoughts. He drank the tea, pushed the food away untasted, and settled on the couch to meditate, his hands steepled beneath his chin. He never noticed when Mary went to bed.

The sun was just rising when they both were aroused by the excited voice of the vicar outside, calling to them. “Mr. Holmes! Dr Watson! My poor parish is devil-ridden! Satan himself is loose in it! There’s been another death! Mortimer Tregannis has died in the night!”


	3. The Watson Family Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's the Watson family business, saving your life," Mary said.

As previously noted, this is a take on ACD’s story “The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot”. All the best lines are his and are in italics.

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

After 24 hours of nonstop Sherlock, if I didn’t admire your patience and fortitude before, I certainly do now, Captain. MW

How are things going? JW

We’re on our way to a second murder scene, so, you know, it’s Christmas! MW

I miss all the good murders. This conference is unbearably dull. JW

We’ll have to start taking turns after this. I kind of like being you. MW

We’ll see about that, if you come home safely. JW

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Mr. Roundhay, the vicar, drove them in his car to the cottage in Mullion Cove, and Sherlock and Mary stepped out into the sunshine of a lovely, airy garden. In contrast, the atmosphere of the sitting room was of a horrible and depressing stuffiness. Inspector Parker and Dr Richards were already there and had opened a window, or the air would have been completely intolerable. The dead man was sitting in a chair still wearing the same clothes from the day before. An empty bottle of whiskey was on the floor at his feet, an empty glass on the table at his side, along with an ashtray heaped with ashes and the stub of a cigar.

Mary examined Mortimer Tregannis’ face and hands carefully. “It’s the same as the others. Asphyxiation with no apparent cause. And how he could just sit there, unmoving, as he slowly smothered I just can’t fathom. It’s almost like carbon monoxide poisoning, but there would have to be—oh, over 10,000 parts per million in this room to have this kind of effect so quickly.”

“I agree,” Dr Richards said. “I’m sure the autopsy will show the same amount of nothing that his sister’s did—no drugs in the system, except the alcohol, of course.”

“Perhaps he had already passed out from drink, before he smothered from whatever it is that killed him,” the Inspector suggested.

“And, why, oh, why did he start drinking again?” Mr. Roundhay mourned. “He was doing so well! I checked here every day to make sure he didn’t have any bottles hidden away. I should not have let him come home alone last night. I knew he was in a bad state.”

Sherlock was listening, but at the same time was roaming all over the room. He quickly finished his examination of the sitting room and dashed into other parts of the house, out into the garden, and back inside again. Then he pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket and put the cigar end inside.

“Mr. Roundhay, did Tregannis smoke cigars?” he spoke at last.

“No, he was never a smoker. Not cigars, nor cigarettes, nor pipe.”

“Inspector, I assume you have thoroughly checked Mr. Sterndale’s alibi and are satisfied that he was actually in London on the night of wife’s death?” he demanded abruptly.

“Of course,” Inspector Parker nodded.

“Well, he was HERE, last night, by the footprints in the garden. He was also in MY garden last night, and the prints are the same. You can compare them for yourself if you like. You should bring him in for questioning immediately, before he decides to go on to South Africa after all. You should also have the ashes in this tray sent out to a lab for analysis, as well as the ashes in the fireplace in the cottage at Tredannick Wollas.”

No one moved. Finally, Dr Richards said, “But why? We know Leon Sterndale was nowhere near here during the other . . . incident.”

“You people invited me here because you needed my expertise! Are you going to argue with me while a murderer escapes, or do as I suggest?” Sherlock exclaimed, indignant and rather outraged at being questioned. He intended to go on, but then Mary cleared her throat quietly. She was across the room from Sherlock and could not speak to him without the others hearing, but she held up that insidious right index finger and he found himself suddenly rendered mute. 

“What Sherlock means to say,” Mary spoke gently into the silence that had followed Sherlock’s tirade, “is that he’s had a lot of experience in cases like this and he is certain he is correct in his assessment. It would be easier to find Mr. Sterndale now and ask him a few questions than it would be to wait and try to find him later, when he’s had a chance to disappear.”

Inspector Parker shook his head as if trying to shake off a sudden headache. “As you say, we did invite you here because you have a reputation of being right. And I admit, Sterndale has a motive—all the family’s property will come to him now. We’ll do as you ask, but if you can’t explain how he could be in two places at once, I can’t hold him.”

Sherlock dismissed trivial explanations with a regal wave of his hand. “Fine, fine. Now we’ll need a ride back to our cottage immediately. And send someone to get us when you’ve brought Sterndale in,” Sherlock commanded sharply, and rushed towards the door.

“Erm, he meant, ‘thank you’, Inspector,” Mary sighed. “I apologize for his manners, gentleman. I’m trying to house-train him, but I’m afraid he needs more work.”

“Your charm more than makes up for it, Dr Watson,” Dr Richards smiled. “I can give you two a ride back. The vicar here needs to stay with his parishioner.” 

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

What will you do to me if I kill him myself? MW

I’ll help you build a case for self-defence. It shouldn’t be a problem. JW

I’ve changed my mind. After this, he’s all yours. MW

If you kill him, he won’t be anybody’s. Stick with him, it’ll get better. JW

I miss you, Captain. MW

I miss you, too. JW

While Mary texted her husband, Sherlock spent his time on the ride back to their cottage looking up African tribal rituals on the internet. “Ah! This could be it. Of course, I’ll have to try it out to be sure.”

“Try what out?” Mary asked. They had arrived, and she thanked Dr Richards profusely as she got out of the car. Sherlock said nothing as he unfolded himself from the back seat and wandered into the cottage. 

“Try what out?” Mary repeated, following him inside.

“What do you think, Mary? What do both crime scenes have in common? Something was burned, each time. Remember what that housekeeper woman said happened when she arrived at the cottage that morning?”

“Mrs. Porter? She said she fainted with shock when she discovered the family.”

"What if it wasn’t shock? The windows and the door were shut until she arrived and opened them. Whatever was in the air in that room had lingered, no longer potent enough to harm her, but enough to make her pass out.”

“Mortimer Tregannis’ room was very stuffy and close. I wonder if we would have all passed out if the windows hadn’t been opened immediately.” Mary mused. “What does the stuff do, Sherlock? Do you know what it is?”

“I have an idea, but I need to be certain. Sending this to a lab to be analysed could take days. I need to test this theory out now.” Sherlock produced the cigar stub from his pocket. “Go outside, Mary. You can watch through the window.”

“Are you mad? You don’t know what’s in that cigar that killed Mortimer Tregannis or what it might do to you! Don’t you dare light that, Sherlock, I mean it!”

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “You heard the inspector. They can’t hold Sterndale without evidence. I can prove he killed his wife and brother-in-law in a few minutes; or I can sit around twiddling my thumbs and let a murderer leave the country while we wait for a lab to provide the proof we need.”

Mary sank into a chair wearily. “We need to take safety precautions, then,” she groaned. “I can’t believe I’m going along with this. I’m as mad as you are.”

“Go outside, Mary. What would John say to me if I let you stay while I test this?” Sherlock insisted.

“If John were here instead of me, would he go cower outside?” Mary demanded. “Here, I’ll open all the windows and the door. Whatever this stuff is, it won’t be as potent with fresh air flowing through the room.” She began to open the windows as Sherlock found a bowl in the kitchen, set it on an end table in the middle of the room, and put the cigar stub in it. He pulled out a lighter.

“Ready?” he asked. Mary nodded, and he touched the lighter’s flame to the cigar end. Mary was standing by one of the open windows, while he remained in the chair by the end table beside the now smoking bowl. Immediately the oddest sensation seized him. He felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. He tried desperately to pull air into his lungs, but it was as if his diaphragm was paralyzed. He couldn’t move. Distantly, he could hear Mary call his name, but she seemed miles and miles away. His vision reduced to a spot, then was altogether gone. 

Suddenly he felt hands jerk him out of his chair. He could not find his feet, but the insistent hands pulled him by the arms across the floor and out the open door. An eternity later, he found he was lying on the grass in the garden, gasping and wheezing, with Mary collapsed by his side panting. Slowly the hellish cloud lifted from his mind and rose like the mists from a landscape, until peace and reason had returned.

“Are you all right?” he demanded hoarsely of Mary when he was able to speak again.

She nodded, unable to sit up. “Good lord, Sherlock, next time you need rescuing, have the consideration to shrink to a manageable size first, won’t you?”

“That did not go quite as I had planned. I’m sorry, Mary, that was . . . unjustifiable. I never imagined the effect would be so sudden and so severe. I’d never have risked your life if I’d known what would happen.”

“I’d never have let you risk yours, if I’d known,” she returned. 

“You saved my life. How did you do it? I must weigh twice what you do.”

Mary sat up and snorted a rueful laugh. “It’s the Watson family business, saving your life. I just did my job. Anyway, I’m stronger than I look.” She smiled at him. “You do know, don’t you, that John and I consider it a privilege to help you in The Work?”

Sherlock smiled uncomfortably back. He rose to his feet, feeling unsteady and weak. “Thank you,” he murmured, almost too quietly to be heard.

Mary stood and brushed herself off. “Well, no harm done after all. Did we learn what we needed to learn? Are we done experimenting with deadly whatevers?”

Sherlock nodded. “As soon as the police bring Sterndale in, we’ll be ready for him.”

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

It was not long before PC Alec Gates arrived in his patrol car to take them to the county police headquarters, where Leon Sterndale awaited them. Sterndale was a very unhappy man.

“I am at a loss to know what you can possibly have to say that could in any way involve me in this affair,” he said, aggrieved.

“Then I will tell you,” Sherlock replied. “You are a hunter of rare and curious oddities which you import and sell.”

“Yes, yes, that is no secret,” Sterndale huffed.

“After you came to talk with me yesterday, you returned to the scene of your wife’s murder and investigated the fireplace.”

“How do you know that?”

“I followed you.”

Sterndale started. “I saw no one!”

Sherlock smirked. “That is what you may expect to see when I follow you. Now, why would you be interested in the fireplace? Perhaps something was burned in that fireplace that produced a toxic atmosphere. It would be simple enough to place a foreign substance into the hollow of a log, and place that log in a log carrier which you knew was to be used at the cottage that night. Were you concerned that some of the poison remained in the ashes, unburned?”

“He pulled all the air out of the room, just like I said,” Alec whispered gleefully. He was beside himself with joy.

“You are inventing fairy tales, Mr. Holmes,” Sterndale snapped, red-faced. “Inspector, must I sit here and listen to this nonsense?”

But Inspector Parker was intrigued. “Go on, Mr. Holmes,” he encouraged.

“Unfortunately for you, Mr. Sterndale, one of the brothers left the house before the affected log was placed in the fire. He escaped your machinations. You went to his home last night, took advantage of his emotional state by encouraging him to give in to his great weakness, and once he was drunk, you lit your cigar and left it burning by his chair, with the smoke rising directly into his face. You had filled your cigar with your toxin, of course. You needn’t deny it, we have tested the stub that was left.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Sterndale growled. “What possible motive could I have for trying to kill off my wife and her family?”

Inspector Parker laughed shortly. “Mr. Sterndale, everyone knows your wife was talking about divorcing you. The gossip’s all over the Peninsula. She’d put up with your philandering long enough. With her dead, you stand to inherit all her properties, and those of her brothers if George and Owen don’t recover.”

Sherlock held up his mobile, the information he’d obtained on the screen. “Radix pedis diaboli. Devil’s-foot root. An ordeal poison used by medicine men in West Africa. You discovered it on one of your hunting trips and smuggled it into the country. Inspector, if you search his house, I’m certain you will discover more of it.”

But Leon Sterndale was defeated. He confessed all, a broken man.

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

“One realized the red-hot energy which underlay Holmes’ phlegmatic exterior when one saw the sudden change which came over him from the moment that he entered that fatal apartment. In an instant, he was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his limbs quivering with eager activity. He was out on the lawn, in through the window, round the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world like a dashing foxhound drawing a cover.”

Mary stopped reading and cast an admiring look at her husband. “This is good stuff, Captain. How you wrote this up out of my poor scribbles I can’t imagine. It’s as if you’d been there yourself.”

“Rubbish!” Sherlock fairly shouted. “What does any of that have to do with the case? And I do NOT run about like a foxhound.”

Mary chuckled. “A dashing foxhound,” she reminded him.

“It’s what the public likes. It’s called ‘description’,” said John with dignity. “It draws the readers in, makes them feel they are right there with you.”

“I think it’s lovely,” Mary said loyally. She continued reading, “Then he rushed down the stair, out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn, sprang up and into the room once more, all with the energy of the hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry.”

Sherlock made a sound of disgust and stomped out of the room. “Description,” he muttered under his breath. Then suddenly he stomped back in.

“Wait. Has she told you what happened after that?”

John kept his face carefully blank. “Why? Is there a certain incident you’d like to keep from me? An experiment gone awry, perhaps? A near-death experience, maybe?”

Sherlock looked chagrined. “You did tell him,” he groaned.

Mary sparkled cheerily. “Did I brag that I singlehandedly dragged you out of a place of certain death? Why yes, I did. Did I want John to know how incredibly awesome I am? Quite right, I did!”

“For the record, I was already thoroughly convinced of your amazing awesomeness,” John smiled. “And I already knew Sherlock was reckless and completely mad. No surprises here.”

“No reprisals for nearly killing your wife, then?” Sherlock hedged.

“I didn’t say that,” John grinned wickedly. “When you least expect it—well, you just watch out!”


	4. To Protect Her Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John knows that something happened in Cornwall that is bothering Mary; but will she be able to admit it to him, or to herself?

He sat on the floor, propped against the couch, his stocking feet outstretched to the fire, and sighed in utter contentment. The six days John had been away from Mary had been the longest in his life. They had been married just over eleven months, and she was already such a part of him that separation was physically painful and emotionally disorienting. But now he was home, and the world was back into proper alignment. She came in from the kitchen, carrying two wine glasses, and settled herself between his legs on the floor, leaning back on his chest comfortably. He took a glass from her hand and sipped from it. 

“This has been a perfect weekend,” Mary murmured. “I missed you so much. You’re never to go out of town without me again.”

John smiled. “I was just thinking the same thing.” He hugged her to him snugly and nuzzled her ear. “I shall never deprive myself of your company again. However, I contend that my week was longer than yours, since you spent half of it running about solving crimes.”

Mary chuckled. “Oh, I agree, Captain, I definitely had the better part of the bargain, being chased by reporters and tormented with inquiries into my personal life.” The Cornwall case had brought Mary to the attention of the press, an event they had so far been able to avoid.

The medical conference had been important, a great honour, an opportunity of a lifetime—and deadly dull. Knowing Mary was off to Cornwall on an exciting murder case with Sherlock while he was glad-handing a lot of boring medical professionals only made it harder to be away. He had, in the end, skipped out on the final banquet and come home early, surprising Mary and Sherlock in the flat on Baker Street Friday evening rather than waiting until Saturday as planned. Mary’s squeal of delight as she flung herself into his arms had been worth the entire ordeal.

They had spent several hours in Baker Street, having a late dinner together and tormenting Sherlock by reading John’s blog entry based on the notes Mary had e-mailed to him concerning the Cornwall murder case. Ever vigilant about Mary’s emotional state, John had noted a slight difference in her interactions with Sherlock. It was so slight that no one else would have noticed, but he was sure that something had happened in Cornwall to disturb Mary’s peace of mind. 

John considered himself to be a fairly ordinary chap—he knew he was no hero, but just a man who did his job, whether as a soldier performing his duties or a doctor fulfilling his Hippocratic Oath. Heroics were for the extraordinary, like Sherlock. But Mary had aroused all his protective instincts almost from the first. She made him want to be like a knight of old, to wield a sword in her defines and to shield her from all forms of harm. He realized that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself—she was the strongest, most self-sufficient person he’d ever known. Nevertheless, he wanted nothing more than to save her from ever being hurt again. Life delivered all manner of blows to them from every side, and he was not always able to deflect those blows away from her—but the desire was there. Whatever it was that troubled her, he longed to make it better. 

They had come home to their flat late Friday night and had locked the door and turned off their phones, shutting the world away and devoting all their attention to reacquainting themselves with each other. For forty-eight hours, nothing had existed but the two of them. Now is was Sunday evening, and the real world was approaching, calling for their attention. It was time to deal with the events of the Cornwall case, before the busyness of everyday life took over.

“I ought to have gone to Edinburgh with you,” Mary was saying. “Apparently, according to all the personnel of New Scotland Yard, I was less than supportive wife by staying away from your moment of honour.”

John snorted. “You would have been bored out of your mind. I certainly was. Why should you have had to suffer through that ordeal? And as for being supportive, you’re the breadwinner of the family—how much more supportive could you be?” he teased.

“You do know how proud I am of you, don’t you?” she said a bit anxiously. “You can laugh about it all you want, but it was a great honour, and one you completely deserved. I would have been proud to have been there to hear your speech.” She twisted her head around to look up at him as she spoke, and he bent to stop her mouth with a gentle kiss.

“You are the best wife a man could have, whatever Scotland Yard might think,” he assured her. “And I’m pleased you had a chance to run off and solve crimes with Sherlock for a change. I know it was great fun for you. Are you really worried about what people think? That you ran off with my best friend the moment my back was turned?”

Mary laughed cheerfully. “People are such idiots. Why should I care what they think? If they can’t understand our relationship, that’s their problem.” 

John mentally ticked that possibility off his list of what might have troubled his wife while he was gone. He considered that, after all, perhaps it was best just to ask. “Something happened in Cornwall that’s been bothering you, though. I’ve been wondering what it was,” he ventured.

“Nothing important, really,” she hedged, as he knew she would. She was so self-sufficient, it was difficult for her to share her problems with him. “Sherlock did something that annoyed me, but I handled it.”

He chuckled. “If Sherlock went a week without being annoying, I would have had to wonder what was wrong with him,” he said. “But you’re better at handling him than anyone.”

“True,” she admitted, sipping at her wine. Deflecting.

He decided to persist. Yes, she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. But he longed for her to let him share the burdens of life, and it was so hard for her to let him. “Was it that experiment he insisted on doing? The one that nearly got you both killed? I would call that rather annoying.”

Mary snorted with laughter. “Actually, that was rather exciting. He was right, of course—it needed to be done. Testing that drug by conventional means would have taken too long, and the murderer would have fled the country. And I was quite pleased with myself for saving his life. Took him down a notch! Here he thought he was looking after me, but all the time, it was me looking after him.” Her voice sobered with this last statement, and John felt he was getting somewhere.

“Bothered you that he tried to get you to leave before he started the experiment, did it?” he guessed. He hated to pry into her feelings, but he was so close he just couldn’t stop now.

“Of course not. He was trying to protect me. He knew you’d kill him if he got me killed. It wasn’t like the night before—he wasn’t just trying to exclude me.”

The night before. All that Mary’s notes had said about the night before was that Sherlock had clandestinely followed the victim’s husband across the moor and collected a few clues on his own. Hmm. Now John was sure he knew what was wrong. “What happened that night, Mary? He took off without you, I take it. Knowing him, he didn’t tell you where he was going. He just vanished without a word, didn’t he?”

She sighed. “It was worse than that. I was in the bath, and I could hear him talking with someone in the garden. I peeked out the window and saw the victim’s husband, Sterndale, sitting on the bench with him, smoking cigars. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they both looked very annoyed. And I thought, isn’t the husband always the most likely suspect? What was Sterndale doing there? What if he realized that Sherlock suspected him, but that he had no evidence whatever? Wouldn’t it benefit him to get rid of Sherlock before he could discover any evidence against him?”

John hugged her tightly. “So you ran to the rescue, didn’t you?” he said admiringly.

“I don’t know about that,” Mary shrugged. “I got dressed as quickly as I could and grabbed your gun off the bed where I’d left it. But when I got out into the garden, they had both disappeared. There was no sign of them anywhere—except for the cigar butts on the ground.” She sighed. “I didn’t know what to do, John. I had no real reason to suspect foul play on Sterndale’s part. For all I knew at the time, he was truly a grieving husband desperate to discover why his wife had died. But all I could picture was Sterndale dragging Sherlock off at gunpoint to kill him in a more conveniently secluded spot. I tried his phone, but he’d turned it off. I even looked for footprints to follow, but I’m no tracker. I couldn’t figure out which footprints belonged to whom. I walked up and down the road a bit, but . . . .” She trailed off. “He just disappeared and left me behind,” she whispered. 

John kissed her hair tenderly. “Thoughtless bastard,” he muttered angrily. “He could have at the least sent you a text before turning his phone off. He never thinks of anything but the case when he gets an idea in his head. I’m sorry he did that to you, love.”

“The worst part is,” she said softly, “he didn’t know it would frighten me. He deduces everything about everyone else. How does he not know that about me? I mean, I like to think I keep my fears pretty well hidden from the world at large, but from him? Does he really not see me at all?”

John thought a moment, not sure what to say. It was so clear to him that Mary’s one and only fear in life was losing people—how had Sherlock missed that basic fact? “I think he has a bit of blind spot when it comes to you, love. I do believe he thinks more highly of you than just about any other person on earth. But besides that, I also believe that he deliberately chose not to tell you he was going in order to protect you. I think it would devastate him if anything happened to you.”

She sighed. “You’d think he’d know me well enough to realize that I’d rather face any amount of danger head-on than be left behind to wonder.”

John smiled grimly, but secretly he was overjoyed that she was sharing this with him. “Well, we’ll just have to dream up a proper punishment for him, won’t we? Let’s put our heads together and come up with a plan, shall we?” He was rewarded with a wicked giggle from his wife, and they spent a pleasant time together finishing their wine and devising a lesson to teach Sherlock not to take Mary’s courage for granted.


	5. The Watsons'  Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gives Sherlock a violin lesson, of sorts. And Mary stages a kidnapping.

He heard the familiar footsteps on the stairs and knew that John had arrived. His friend had been ignoring his texts. Now at last, he would get some answers!

“Where is it?” Sherlock demanded as soon as John appeared in the door.

John looked nonplussed. “Where’s what?” he asked in innocent confusion. But Sherlock was not fooled.

“You know perfectly well what!” he thundered. 

John look around the flat as if in a daze. “What the hell happened? Another explosion? Because apart from the broken windows, this looks worse than the last time the flat blew up.”

“I’ve been searching for it all night!” Sherlock informed him, aggrieved.

John’s eyebrows went up, looking guileless as a child. Oh, he was playing this game for all it was worth, wasn’t he? “Searching?”

“Where did you hide it?” he insisted urgently.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re on about? Because I’ve only just arrived. You’ll have to bring me up to speed if you want me to help you find what you’re looking for,” John said mildly.

Sherlock was beside himself by now. “My Stradivarius, John. What have you done with it?”

John affected a look of surprised dismay. “Your violin is missing? Since when?”

“Since you left last night, John. It was here while you were here; it disappeared when you left.”

“Are you seriously accusing me of taking your Strad? Be sensible, Sherlock. What was I carrying in my hands when I left here last night?” John was not hiding his amusement as well now, which was annoying Sherlock more and more.

“Nothing! Which is why I know you’ve hidden it in the flat! And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re answering all my questions with questions! Now where is it?”

John gave another amazed look around the sitting area. “How you would ever find anything in this mess, I can’t imagine. No wonder things go missing.”

Sherlock fairly exploded. “The room is a mess because I’ve been searching for my Stradivarius! All! Night!” He strode up and down the room with an energy born of righteous indignation.

“All right, all right, calm down,” John soothed in the voice he used for difficult patients. “It must be very upsetting to lose something important to you. I’ll help you look, shall I?” He gave what Sherlock knew was meant to be a significant look, but its meaning escaped the detective.

Sherlock drew a deep breath and tried to gain control of the situation. “All right, John. I understand. You’re angry about that little experiment I did during the Cornwall case. You told me I should expect retaliation and your reprisal has been . . . masterfully executed. But isn’t it time now for an end to this . . . prevarication?”

John shook his head, chuckling. “No, no. We were just winding you up about that, Sherlock. I was never angry about that experiment.”

Sherlock stopped his frenetic pacing. “You weren’t? I almost got your wife killed, and you’re not angry about it?” He could not understand how he had misread the situation so badly.

John gave a patient smile. “Look, I know you tried to get Mary to leave the room. You tried to keep her safe. And good job she wouldn’t leave, yeah? Or where would YOU be now? She knew what she was doing, Sherlock. And god knows, once she makes up her mind to do something, nothing on earth can change it.” He added affectionately. “She’s a bloody force of nature, isn’t she? Pulling you out of danger that way.”

“Yes, yes, your wife has many admirable qualities,” Sherlock waved all those qualities away impatiently. “I imagine we could go on enumerating them indefinitely. Don’t, please. Just tell me where my Strad is and let’s end this stalemate.”

John's smile grew a bit less forbearing at this cavalier dismissal of Mary’s virtues. “Perhaps we should ask Mrs. Hudson if she nicked it. Could be she wanted a good night’s sleep for a change?” he suggested.

Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve already talked to her. She was as disturbed by its disappearance as I am. And her distress was obviously genuine, whereas yours is clearly feigned.”

Did John smirk? Sherlock wondered. It was such a fleeting expression. But just then, his mobile signalled an incoming text. He looked at the screen with disbelief. It was a picture of his black violin case, tied with heavy ropes to a chair which was unmistakably in one of the interrogation rooms at Scotland Yard. There was a handkerchief bound around it; whether it was meant to be a gag or a blindfold was impossible to say.

“This is not funny, John,” he said dangerously.

“What?” John asked, still playing his little game. Sherlock had had just about enough.

“Are you claiming not to know about this?” He handed the mobile to John. John’s reaction proved he had not seen this picture before. He burst into a gale of surprised laughter.

“Oh, this is brilliant! Brilliant! Mary’s a genius!” he exclaimed.

“John, this is a delicate and extremely valuable instrument!” Sherlock cried indignantly.

John gathered control of himself. “I know, Sherlock. Believe me, it’s being treated with utmost respect. It’s in good hands, in the safest place I know. Trust me,” he said reassuringly.

“Fine!” Sherlock snapped. He strode towards his bedroom in a cold fury.

“What are you doing?” John asked.

Sherlock ignored him. Pulling off his dressing gown, he balled it up and flung it away and started looking for something to wear amongst the ruins that was his normally neat room.

“Sherlock,” John called. “Come back in here and sit down. Now.” 

Sherlock froze. That was not his friend’s voice. It was not even his doctor’s voice. This was Captain Watson of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces speaking. John almost never used that tone with him, and it gave Sherlock pause. This was no mere prank the Watsons were pulling, then. This was serious. He considered what he knew of the situation: John had never lied to him—although he was not currently being straightforward either. Therefore, although John would not reveal his precious violin’s whereabouts, he was telling the truth about it being in a safe place. Sherlock trusted John implicitly, regardless of this outrageous behaviour. And Sherlock realized that his own reaction to this temporary loss was unmerited. He was still angry—but he was now in control of himself once more.

And so he acquiesced, throwing himself into the chair across from John, still sulking, but calm.

John began, “I’m going to tell you a story now. It’s a story you’ve heard before, but either you deleted it or you never grasped the implications of it. It’s a story you ought to have understood and acted upon, and you did not.”

“I’m listening,” Sherlock intoned, trying to sound bored and not quite succeeding.

“When Mary was four years old, her mother vanished without a trace.”

Sherlock impatiently interrupted. “Mary’s mother died of a brain aneurysm, John, she did not vanish.”

John sighed. “Of course, we know that NOW, Sherlock. But four-year-old Mary only knew that when she went to bed that night, her mother was there and seemingly well; but next morning, her mother was gone and never came back. Even if anyone tried to explain to her what had happened, she couldn’t have understood it. Then, when she was six, the nanny who had been caring for her for two years disappeared.”

Sherlock was annoyed. “People don’t disappear, John. The woman eloped with an AWOL soldier and they went into hiding.”

John shook his head. “Again, yes, we know that NOW. But Mary was only six. No one bothered to tell her what happened. She only knew that her nanny, to whom she’d become very attached, left one evening and never returned. Then Mary was sent off to England, a place she’d never been, and passed around amongst strangers: great-aunts and second cousins and whatnots. She learned not to care about anyone, because everyone she knew either disappeared or sent her away; either way, she never saw them again. When she was sixteen and her father mysteriously disappeared, everyone was impressed by how well she took the news. What they didn’t understand was that, as far as she was concerned, he’d disappeared when he’d sent her away, ten years earlier. It was another ten years before she learned the truth of his murder.”

Sherlock shifted in his chair, trying to stave off impatience and finding it beyond his capability. “Yes, yes, John, you’re right. I know the story. And then she met you and learned to care again, and lived happily ever after. It’s touching, if a bit cliché. But what does it have to do with me?”

John was exasperated. He stood up and moved closer to Sherlock’s chair, gesturing broadly for emphasis. “It has everything to do with you, Sherlock! Mary is the strongest and most fearless person I have ever known. The one and only thing she’s afraid of is that the people she cares about will disappear. And you bloody vanished!”

Sherlock felt a wave of cold shock wash over him, remembering Mary’s white face when he’d returned to their cottage after an unexplained absence of several hours. He’d known she’d been upset—how had it escaped him that she’d been terrified?

“But, John, she knows how I work. She knows I just take off sometimes. And she knows I can take care of myself. Why would she be worried?”

“Because she cares about you, you idiot!” John exclaimed. “Look, you knew full well that I’d hidden your Strad. You knew I’d never let anything happen to it. You knew it wasn’t really lost. And yet . . . .” John threw his arms wide, indicating the entire room. “You drove yourself mad looking for it. Because losing something that’s important to you IS upsetting!”

Sherlock remained silent, absorbing the fact that he was actually important to Mary. John went on. “Think about how it looked to her. She was in the bath. Through the open window, she could hear you talking to someone out in the garden. And when she came outside to look for you, you were nowhere to be found. She didn’t know if you’d been kidnapped, or killed, or what. You were in the middle of murder investigation—was it the murderer you’d been talking to? Well, as it turned out, it was! She called you on the phone, and you’d turned your phone off. She walked up and down the road, trying to find some sign of you. You were just gone.”

“I didn’t realize,” Sherlock murmured. 

“But you should have,” John replied, not unkindly. “You should have realized, Sherlock. You knew her story. People think you don’t understand feelings, but when we met, I was emotionally damaged and you helped me. You do understand these things. You just weren’t paying attention. And she deserves better from you.”

“That’s why you text her so often throughout the day,” Sherlock said slowly, the truth finally dawning on him. “I thought she was just interested in keeping up to date on our cases.”

John smiled grimly. “She is interested. Of course she is. But updating her also gives me an opportunity to reassure her that I’m still on the planet.”

“I’m sorry, John. You’re right, I should have realized. I will apologize to Mary when I see her, as well. I promise I won’t take her courage for granted again.” Sherlock was truly contrite.

“Good!” John said, looking satisfied. “Although actually, she’d forgiven you already. I’m the one who felt you needed to learn a lesson.” He raised his voice. “Mrs. Hudson, you can come in now.”

The door opened. Mrs. Hudson had obviously been standing outside in the hall waiting for her cue. And in her hands was Sherlock’s violin, sans case, in perfect condition. Sherlock rose and took it from her reverently, caressing it gently.

Mrs. Hudson was a bundle of nerves. “John told me to look in the pantry when he arrived this morning, Sherlock. I never knew he’d put it there. And he asked me to wait until he called me to bring it to you. It’s all right, isn’t it?” she said uncertainly. She’d been up all night herself, listening to Sherlock’s frantic rummaging, and knew how upset he was.

“Yes, it’s all right, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, smiling at her reassuringly. “John is entirely responsible for this situation. He has taught me a valuable lesson. And he was right—my violin was in the safest hands possible.” He took the bow from her hand and began to softly play a happy air.

“I tossed the empty case out the window after I put the Strad on Mrs. Hudson’s shelf. That way I could leave with empty hands and make you think it was still in the flat.” John explained. “Mary was to send a picture to your phone this morning—I never expected her to take it to Scotland Yard and tie it to a chair! She’s obviously been having too much fun with this idea.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said absently, without missing a note. “I’d have found out the truth myself before too much longer. But thank you, John, for showing me the clues I had missed.” He played on; and John, of course, began clearing up Sherlock’s mess. Life had reach equilibrium once more.


	6. Vicious Rumours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The minute John Watson leaves town for his medical conference, Mary and Sherlock run off to Cornwall to "solve a case". Of course they did (wink wink nudge nudge)

This chapter takes place during the stories entitled “His Spare Watson” and “The Watson’s Revenge.” 

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

“I’m surprised you didn’t call Holmes and Watson in for this one,” Dimmock commented to Lestrade as they surveyed the puzzling crime scene. “I mean, I’m happy to help out, but this is right up their alley.”

“I would if I could, you can believe it,” Lestrade replied sincerely. He had not wanted to call Dimmock for help, but this case was a poser. “Sherlock’s in Cornwall on a case. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Donovan stopped what she was doing, her radar apparently tuned in to any Sherlockian news. “Wait. Isn’t Watson at some big medical to-do? How can you let the Freak go to Cornwall without his minder?” she asked cynically. He knew that she kept up with John’s blog, feeling it part of her job to know what the Freak and his friend were up to.

He smiled tightly. “John Watson is keynote speaker at an important medical conference in Edinburgh,” he replied, as pleased as if he were the one being recognized. “You should be sure to congratulate him when you see him next, Donovan. It’s a great honour.” He was glad to see Donovan flush at his reprimand. “And as for Sherlock, he’s not in Cornwall alone. Mary went with him. She’ll keep him well in hand.” Actually, he was glad that Mary had this distraction. He had been concerned about her since she’d lost the baby; she had not been at all her usual self. He was sure she needed a new challenge to help her in her recovery.

Dimmock was lost. “Who?”

“John’s wife, Mrs Dr Watson,” Lestrade informed him, as proud as any father could be. “I hope you meet her sometime, Dimmock, she’s quite something. Pint-sized, but the most courageous, compassionate person I know.”

“I didn’t know Watson was married,” Dimmock mused. “And she gets along with Holmes? That’s hard to imagine.”

“Oh, she’s got him wound right round her little finger, that one,” Lestrade assured him. “I believe he’ll do anything she tells him.”

“He’s not the only one,” Donovan muttered. He was well aware that, in her opinion, her Boss was far too enamoured of the girl.

“What’s that, Donovan?” Lestrade said sharply.

Donovan apparently decided to boldly speak her mind. “You lot seem to think the sun wouldn’t rise in the morning if Mary Watson didn’t tell it to,” she declared flatly. 

Lestrade grinned ingenuously. “What makes you think it would?”

Donovan turned away in disgust, ostensibly doing her job. But he had an idea that this animosity of hers would not end here. 

0000  
“Have you heard about the Freak and Mary Watson?” Donovan asked Anderson as they had a pint together in their favourite pub after work. Anderson shook his head, trying to seem uninterested.

“John Watson is being honoured at some big medical conference. But instead of being there for him, his loving wife wastes no time going off to Cornwall with her husband’s best friend. They’re working on a ‘case’, the Boss says.” Donovan used air-quotes to emphasize her cynicism.

“A ‘case’, eh? Is that what they’re calling it now?” Anderson chuckled, delighted. 

“Oh, there’s more!” Donovan assured him seriously. “I have a friend that lives on the Lizard Peninsula. I rang him up today; it’s a small place, and this case is all the news there. I mean, there really has been a mysterious murder. But he tells me that, rather than putting up in a hotel or an inn, the Freak and his ‘assistant’ have taken a cottage on the bay together. A one bedroom, vacation cottage.”

Anderson grinned wolfishly. “Does Watson know his wife’s stepping out on him?” he asked, relishing the gossip.

“If he doesn’t now, he will soon. This case they’re working is a big one, as it turns out. It’ll be in the national news tonight.” Donovan frowned, feeling conflicted. She hated Sherlock Holmes; she resented Mary Watson. But . . . “It’s kind of a shame, really. I mean, Watson is a strange one, hanging out with the Freak like he does. But he really loves his wife. I kind of feel sorry for him. They seemed like such a happy couple.”

“It was inevitable,” Anderson assured her. “With them thrown together so much of the time, it’s no wonder the Freak went for her. I’d wouldn’t mind taking a ‘case’ with little Mary myself.” He leered a bit. Donovan’s frown deepened.

“What do you lot see in her?” she demanded. “You men are such push-overs for a pretty face.”

“Oh, it’s not just that,” Anderson explained. “She’s clever, and good with weapons. You ought to have seen her put together that estolica thing with a couple of sticks and some wire and such, all in a few minutes. And then she shot it with dead-eye aim. It was amazing!” He saw the murder in Donovan’s eyes and backed down. “I mean, I don’t care for her, myself. She’s not my type. What I’m saying is, if the Freak were to fall for somebody, it would be someone like her. You know, brainy, and competent, and . . . .” He trailed off, intimidated by Donovan’s stormy expression. “If you like that kind of thing,” he added lamely.

“Bloody prat,” Donovan said scathingly.

000  
“Have you heard about the Watsons?” Anderson asked Molly as he watched her examine the body in the case he was working on.

“What about them?” Molly asked with much trepidation. She could not express how much she disliked getting information from this man. His very voice jangled her nerves.

“They’re splitting up,” he told her with much satisfaction. “Watson no sooner goes off to this medical thing in Scotland when she takes off on a cosy little romantic get-away with the ‘other man’: her good friend the Freak.”

“What . . . where on earth did you hear that . . . rubbish?” Molly demanded. She knew Sherlock and Mary were on a murder case in Cornwall—how did one interpret that as a romantic get-away? Of course, John and Mary had just experienced a tragedy in losing their baby; many couples couldn’t survive that kind of stress. But the Watsons had, by all appearances, grown even closer as they dealt with their shared grief. Molly would have sworn by their commitment to each other. 

“Oh, word gets around,” Anderson assured her in a pompous tone. “It’s all over the news. They’ve taken a one-bedroom cottage in the Lizard Peninsula together.”

“Don’t be so . . . filthy-minded. Mary and Sherlock are friends,” Molly said firmly. “It’s . . . idiotic to think that two people can’t be friends without it turning into . . . something else.”

Anderson chortled suggestively. “I wouldn’t mind being a bit more friendly with little Mary,” he admitted freely, then reeled back as a quick hand left its mark on his face.

“Disgusting letch,” Molly hissed, rubbing her stinging palm. She felt like running for some antiseptic to clean her hand.

Anderson stalked out in a huff. He ought to have remembered that this one was a slapper.

000

Lestrade was relieved when Sherlock returned to London. This latest murder case was wearing on him. He liked Dimmock all right, but the man was not much on taking initiative. He had to be led through a case one step at a time, and Lestrade did not have the time to lead him. 

“Is Watson back from his conference?” Anderson asked, barely disguising his glee as he imagined the Freak and his friend brawling over Mary Watson. It would just brighten his whole day. He was visibly disappointed when Lestrade shook his head. “Oh, well. Maybe the subject of strife herself will come with the Freak. That could be amusing,” he chortled. Lestrade glared at him.

“I wonder if Watson knows what they’ve been up to.” Donovan mused. “I actually kind of hate to think of those two splitting up. They seem so right for each other.”

Lestrade was disgusted. “Look at you lot; so invested in other people’s relationships. Mind your own business, why don’t you? And anyway, I’ll believe Mary Watson is cheating on John when pigs fly across the English Channel.”

And then Sherlock arrived, alone, coat swirling, rushing about with his nose to the floor as he began searching for clues without so much as a word of greeting. Lestrade devoutly wished for a Watson—any Watson!—to humanize Sherlock’s behaviour.

“Nice to see you back in town,” he commented dryly. He received a grunt in reply. 

“Did you have a nice trip to Cornwall?” Anderson asked, chuckling. He was ignored.

“I hear Mary Watson went with you,” Donovan said suggestively. “I bet she was very helpful, wasn’t she?”

Sherlock stopped and looked from Donovan to Anderson and back suspiciously. “She was an able assistant,” he remarked, and turned back to his investigation.

“Is that what you call it?” Anderson snickered. “I could use a little ‘assistance’ myself, sometime.”

Sherlock stopped again. “Just what are you implying, Anderson?” he demanded, and the forensic specialist backed off, hands held up placatingly.

“Nothing, nothing,” he assured the detective hastily. “It’s just that, it’s good to have someone around to . . . help. You know, with whatever you might need help with.” He winked at Donovan cheerfully.

“That’s quite enough of that, Anderson!” Lestrade snapped impatiently. He was at his wit’s end with all this disgusting innuendo. “Another remark like that and you’ll be out on the dole.”

Donovan rolled her eyes. “Wrapped around her finger, all right,” she muttered bitterly.

“It was the second cousin, as you would know if you’d bothered to look at his right wrist,” Sherlock informed him imperiously, and swooped out of the room.

000

“Mary, this is Molly,” the pathologist said breathlessly through the phone. “Have you heard the rumours going around about you and Sherlock?” Mary had not, having been back in town only a few hours, so a worried Molly was quick to inform her.

Mary could not stop laughing for a full minute.

It was a welcome sound to Molly, who had not heard her friend laugh so heartily since she had lost the baby two months before. It almost made her thankful for the fools who were spreading this incredible gossip.

“People are such idiots,” Mary giggled, gasping for breath. 

Molly, who had not believed the gossip for one minute, was nevertheless relieved. She had not wanted to believe the rumours, but they were so compelling; and who knew what a person consumed with grief might not do.

“Oh, that does drive me mad, though,” Mary added, barely controlling her mirth. “I mean, why on earth can’t two friends help each other and work together without it turning into a scandal? There must be some way to teach these morons a lesson.”

“I slapped Anderson,” Molly was pleased to volunteer.

“A good start,” Mary commended her. “But we must do more. Let’s put our heads together and think about it, shall we?”

Molly really hated it when Mary started plotting. She hated it more when Mary included her in her plots. And yet, this seemed to be good medicine for her friend. She contrived to whip up a plan of revenge for Mary that would not include herself. 

“Excellent idea!” Mary cried when Molly had finished outlining her idea. “Oooh, this will be lovely!”

000

Lestrade was looking forward to this. John had been back from his conference for several days now, and he and Sherlock had agreed to meet him at a crime scene within the hour. A small crowd of his people had gathered—far more than was needed. It was eaves-dropping at its very worst, but Lestrade knew the duo would be ready for it.

Mary had charged into his office that morning, full of life and good humour, asking for his help in teaching Sherlock a lesson. He had readily agreed and had watched her with great amusement as she tied Sherlock’s violin case to a chair in one of the interrogation rooms and put a kerchief around it. 

“Is that meant to be a gag or a blindfold?” he had chuckled, and she laughed cheerfully, music to his ears. 

“Both!” she exclaimed, taking pictures of it with her phone and sending them. Lestrade was pleased. He’d known that this trip to Cornwall would do wonders for Mary’s spirits. She seemed quite like her old self again. And apparently John was doing better, as well, as according to Mary he had instigated this little joke.

And now, Lestrade was certain that Sherlock, John, and Mary would not let this rumor business go by without some sort of retaliation. 

Sherlock and John bustled in, ignoring all and sundry, deeply engaged in an argument. “We had an agreement,” John was saying sternly. “We agreed to share.” Lestrade noted Donovan and Anderson giving each other significant, wide-eyed looks.

Sherlock bent over the body, refusing to meet his comrade’s eyes. “We agreed that I would have Sunday through Tuesday with alternate Wednesdays and you would get Thursday through Saturday. Today, as you may have noted, is Monday,” he said with great dignity.

John examined the corpse’s eyes rather than look at Sherlock’s. “You know I missed my turn last week. I was out of town.”

“Not my problem!” Sherlock coldly claimed, whipping out a magnifying glass and peering through it at the victim’s fingernails.

As they spoke, the room stirred around them. Whispers and nudges were exchanged, as well as certain sums of money. Snickers were hidden behind hands. Lestrade smirked. A perfect wind up!

John rose and faced his opponent, looking daggers. “You know, I only agreed to share mine with you because you couldn’t be bothered to get your own,” he declared flatly. “Legally, I have all the rights. I take back my offer to share.”

Sherlock appeared incensed. “I paid you a considerable sum for my share!” he said indignantly.

This declaration electrified the very atmosphere, paralyzing all personnel in their tracks. Lestrade had to turn away, unable to look at all the saucer-sized eyes around him without giving the show away.

“I’ll pay it back!” John snapped.

“I refuse to take it!” Sherlock returned coldly. They were now leaning in towards each other over the corpse, face to face, fists clenched. Donovan and Anderson’s faces were a mixture of fascination and horror. “And shouldn’t you consult with Mary before making such a drastic decision?” Sherlock added.

“Mary will agree with me,” John said through gritted teeth.

“I contend that she will agree with me,” Sherlock stated firmly. “She is much more fair-minded and generous than you.”

The gasps throughout the silent room nearly caused Lestrade to lose control of his mirth. He could feel his face turn purple with the effort not to howl in helpless laughter.

He was saved by the appearance of Mary herself in the doorway. “Good lord, are you at it again?” she exclaimed. “I apologize for these two nine-year-olds! Ever since they went shares on that Xbox they’ve been impossible to live with.”

Tears ran down Lestrade’s face and he sat down heavily, weak with laughter. “Oh, the looks on your faces!” he cried incoherently. Around the room, money returned to original hands and faces turned red as feet shifted uncomfortably.

“Xbox?” Donovan was confused.

Mary nodded. “You know, a game system. They’re hooked on the bloody thing. I am just about to toss it into the nearest skip.”

“We thought. . . .” Anderson began, only to be sharply elbowed in the stomach by Donovan.

“It was the maid,” Sherlock droned to Lestrade, ignoring the uproar around him. “Ask her about the kittens and she’ll confess everything, I guarantee it.” He swished out of the room, followed by John and Mary arm-in-arm.

“Kittens?” Lestrade muttered, shaking his head. “Well, if you say so.” Interestingly, he caught a glimpse of Molly Hooper through the doorway, giggling. Intriguing.

“Just friends, after all,” Donovan murmured to Anderson. “I admit I am glad for John’s sake. But—just friends? How dull.”

“You should wish for friends like that, Donovan,” Lestrade told her sharply. “I know I’m proud to call them friends of mine. You two should be ashamed, spreading such rubbish about. I don’t know how you sleep at night, the way you carry on.”

“I lie awake worrying that Mary Watson won’t call the sun up in the morning,” Donovan grumbled.


	7. Pursued by Paparazzi, I Perceive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened between the end of the Cornwall case and John's homecoming? The press get wind of Mary's existence at last!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place immediately after the Cornwall case. John is still at his medical conference, and Mary has gone back to work after her three-day leave in Cornwall, helping Sherlock with a case.

After a gentle knock, the exam room door opened revealing Janet, the efficient receptionist, her usually friendly face looking uncharacteristically concerned. “Dr Watson?” she began, “there were people here asking to see you. I think they were reporters.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Mary sighed. She’d known this day would come eventually, but had hoped to put it off a bit longer. She and John had been married almost a year now, but for the most part had been able to keep that fact from the general public. Even Mary’s own colleagues did not yet suspect that the “John Watson” she had married was the same person as the famous blogger detective. “Where are they now?” she asked.

“I sent them out. I hope that’s all right,” Janet said hesitantly. 

“Quite right,” Mary nodded emphatically. “Although I expect they’ve remained just outside the door.”

Janet smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid so. Doctor, is it true what they said? Your husband is Sherlock Holmes’ assistant?”

“They are a team,” Mary replied, a bit impatiently. Yes, Sherlock was the genius, but where would he be without John? In a grave, that’s where! Or serving a prison sentence for obstruction of justice or some other charge of that sort, after annoying the police beyond all reason. She rose from her desk and went to the window, which overlooked the alley at the back of the building. “I see they have the back entrance staked out as well.” She took a deep breath and made a decision. “Right. Janet, if anyone asks, you can tell them that I’ve gone for the day.”

Janet was appalled. “You’re asking me to lie?” she gasped. Dr Watson never told lies, although she was not above deceit. 

“It won’t be a lie if you give me two minutes head start,” Mary assured her, putting on a jacket and gathering her belongings. “I’m going up to the roof. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“But, Doctor,” Janet objected. “The roof?”

Mary smiled cheerfully. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” She peered out of her door, saw that no one was looking her way, and slipped out to the stairs.

The Press have me surrounded. MW

Really? I miss all the excitement, don’t I? Wish I could rescue you. JW

I suppose Mycroft could send a helicopter. I’m on the roof of the clinic. MW

Ah. Alternate route B? JW

What else? I’ll let you know when I get to Baker Street. MW

She crossed rooftops and ducked down back alleys, following a map on her phone, heading for Baker Street rather than her own flat. John was still out of town, and she had promised him that she would not stay alone at their flat while he was gone. He had not ceased to be haunted by her kidnapping five months earlier, and she was perfectly happy to do anything to stop him from worrying. At last, she arrived at the back of 221B Baker Street. If Mrs. Hudson wasn’t home, she was sunk! Rapping at the window of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, she looked around, hoping no one had managed to follow her.

“My dear!” Mrs. Hudson cried as she raised the window. “What on earth?”

“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Hudson,” Mary said as she climbed in through the window. “There were some reporters at my clinic today. I think I lost them, but I feel certain the house is being watched.”

“Oh, it’s no bother, dear,” she was assured. “But, Mary, you know no reporters can come to this house. Mycroft has seen to it. He’d have them arrested. The restraining order, you know.”

“Oh, I know, but even Mycroft can’t stop people from watching the front door. I promised John I would stay here with Sherlock until he returns from the Medical Conference, but I really don’t relish the scandal if reporters notice me arriving and not leaving until tomorrow. You know how people talk.”

“They do little else,” Mrs. Hudson nodded wisely. “Go on upstairs, dear. If anyone turns up at the door as shouldn’t, I’ll deal with them.”

Mary smiled. “Woe be to them!” she chuckled, and headed up the stairs, texting John as she went.

Sherlock was engrossed in his laptop as she stood in the door of the flat. “Pursued by paparazzi, I perceive,” he stated without looking up. 

“I don’t even want to know how you worked that out before I ever made it inside the room,” Mary told him. “Nice alliteration, though. I congratulate you.”

“I didn’t hear the front door—you apparently entered through Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen window. Why else would you do such a thing unless you were attempting to enter the flat unseen? And who else’s attention would you be trying to avoid?” Sherlock intoned, his eyes still glued to the screen of his laptop. 

“Do shut up, Sweetheart. I said I didn’t want to know,” Mary said affectionately, dropping onto the sofa in utter exhaustion. “I used one of the alternate routes you mapped out for me after I was kidnapped that time. It worked out quite well, but I’m not used to so much climbing. Make me some tea, would you? I can’t move another step.”

“I don’t make tea for people,” Sherlock protested mildly, finally looking up at her.

“Yes, you do,” she returned smartly. “And since you care about my well-being, you’ll do this for me, won’t you? See, my tongue is absolutely hanging out. I’m dying of thirst.”

Sherlock sighed deeply, but rose from his chair and moved towards the kitchen. “I warned you this would happen sooner or later,” he told her. “The press was bound to find out about you, especially after this case in Cornwall.”

“I know, we did talk about it before I agreed to go with you. And I guess I was prepared to deal with it at the time. But after you had that little talk with the inspector there, I thought everyone had agreed to keep my involvement under wraps.”

“It wasn’t the inspector who gave you away. It was that young PC who was so enamoured of you. Look at the paper there on the floor.”

Mary picked up the newspaper. The headlines blared: “Mysterious Mrs. Watson! Is Famous Duo Now a Trio?” She skimmed quickly through the article, mostly an interview of PC Alec Gates, who gushed excessively over her looks. She growled in annoyance. “That little bugger. And he claims to be so fond of me. Did you read this, Sherlock? ‘Detective Sherlock Holmes apparently now has two Doctor Watsons at his beck and call.’ Beck and call? What are we now, your pet golden retrievers? Beck and call, indeed,” she fumed.

Sherlock snorted. “If only they knew the truth of who actually bosses whom in this partnership,” he observed sarcastically as he handed her a steaming cup. “Your tea, just as you like it, madam. Will there be anything else? Biscuits, perhaps? Broiled lobster? Sirloin steak?”

Mary’s ill mood dissolved in giggles. “If only your public knew the Sherlock I know,” she chuckled. “You’re such a clown sometimes!”

“They will never know,” Sherlock told her sternly, and sat in his chair again, picking up his laptop. 

Mary continued mirthfully, “Molly called me this morning. According to Anderson and Donovan, the murder case in Cornwall was actually a cover-up for a torrid love affair.”

Sherlock appeared bewildered. “Love affair? Whose love affair? The victim’s? Or the perpetrator’s?”

Mary could not stop laughing now. “Ours!” she informed him. “Apparently we’ve just been on a romantic get-away on the Lizard Peninsula. Poor John. What a stooge he must be, not to see what’s going on beneath his very nose,” she gasped, barely able to breathe. “And what horrible people we are, to treat him so shamefully. And you call yourself his best friend!”

Sherlock was mystified. “Mary, what in heaven’s name are you talking about? Wait, wait. . . .” He steepled his hands, deep in thought. “Hmm, that explains their behaviour at the crime scene today. Lestrade threatened to make Anderson redundant for some seemingly innocuous statement, which I believe was meant to be an innuendo.”

“How sweet of Greg,” Mary smiled. ”He’s such a dear. Well, don’t worry. Molly and I have worked out a scheme to teach Scotland Yard a lesson for such rumour-mongering. We’ll implement it as soon as John gets back. But can we put off the press until John returns, as well? He won’t be back for two more days.”

“Oh, no, no! That would be a mistake. Look at the headline, Mary. ‘Mysterious’, they call you. You can’t be elusive or cagey now. It would only add to the mystery of your persona and make them all the more keen to uncover your story.”

“You’re right,” Mary nodded thoughtfully. “There would be nothing but endless speculation as to what I may be hiding. I suppose the wisest thing to do would be to call a press conference, and then be as dull and ordinary as possible. Do you think I can pull it off?”

Sherlock snorted derisively. “It would be amusing to watch you trying being ordinary,” he said.


	8. An Attempt at Ordinary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary attempts to appear dull and ordinary in her interview. She fails.

“I miss you,” she whispered to the dear, familiar image on the screen of her laptop. John smiled.

 

“I miss you, too,” he murmured. “I’ll be home in two days’ time, though. We’ll do something special when I get back.” Mary was thankful for modern technology which allowed her to communicate with her absent husband. But seeing him on Skype was no substitute for personal contact. If anything, it made the persistent ache of missing him even more poignant. 

 

She sighed. “Let’s lock ourselves in the flat for the weekend and not leave ‘til Monday.”

 

“Sounds perfect,” John agreed.

 

“Why didn’t I just come with you?” she lamented. She had finished telling him of her escape from the reporters that afternoon, and of Sherlock’s plan for dealing with them. A stodgy medical conference sounded like heaven compared to what she was facing on the morrow. “If I hadn’t gone to Cornwall, I could have avoided this whole mess!”

 

“And leave Sherlock without a minder?” John protested. “Anyway, you know you had the time of your life, helping him on that murder case. You wouldn’t have missed it for the world. You’d be bored to tears sitting through these sessions here.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know about that. There’s a write-up in the papers of your talk yesterday. It says you had your audience on the edge of their seats with your exciting stories. I’m so proud of you, Captain.” Mary caressed the screen of her laptop with her fingertips, frustrated by its cool aloofness. 

 

John looked down with a shy smile. His complete loss at knowing how to respond to praise was endearing. He was the most exceptional human being Mary had ever known, and he had no idea how extraordinary he was. 

 

He changed the subject. “I read the article on your exploits in Cornwall. You did an amazing job down there, love. Keeping Sherlock in line is no picnic, I know, but you handle him like no one else can.”

 

Mary glanced over her shoulder to see Sherlock glowering at them and giggled. “His nibs takes exception to your comments, Captain,” she informed him. “Anyway, back to the plan. What do you think?”

 

“I think a general press conference would be a mistake,” John told her, sobering. “You’d get every kind of tabloid reporter there asking the most ridiculous and insidious questions. You’d have to expect inquiries that range from what you take in your coffee to when you plan to have Sherlock’s baby.”

 

Mary frowned. “You’re right, of course. And I don’t even drink coffee anymore. I don’t have babies, either, apparently,” she added with a lingering hint of bitterness. John smiled comfortingly, now touching the screen in his turn, sharing her feelings of dread at the potential intrusion on this most private part of their lives. Losing their baby earlier that year had been difficult, but they were healing; and the shared experience had solidified their relationship even further, if that were possible. “Do you think they’ll find out about that?” she asked softly.

 

“Be prepared for anything, love,” John told her gently. “They’ll dig up all they can, and it’s no use trying to hide things that are on public record. But instead of inviting all and sundry, just call one of the papers and invite one reporter for an exclusive interview. It will be easier to deal with one person than to try to field questions from dozens.”

 

“I’ll call in the morning and get it done over lunch,” Mary decided. 

 

“I expect we’ll still have to give them a joint interview with the three of us,” John went on. “They’ll want to see us together at some point. But this should hold them for now, and perhaps put to rest your “mysterious” appellation.”

 

“I’m nervous as hell,” she admitted.

 

He chuckled sympathetically. “I’d tell you to just be yourself, but since the whole idea is for you to appear dull and ordinary, you’ll obviously have to be someone else entirely,” he told her.

 

“You say the sweetest things,” she smiled.

 

000

 

“Well, Dr Watson, let’s start with how you met . . . Dr Watson,” the reporter began, pushing the record button on the machine in her hand. The brisk, young woman had arrived promptly at one o’clock and made herself at home at once in the chair in front of Mary’s desk. The young doctor hoped that the office setting and desk between them would help set a business-like tone that would thwart nonsensical and overly-personal questions. It was a vain hope.

 

“Why don’t you call me Mary, to avoid the confusion of two Doctors Watson?” she suggested, trying to be as affable as possible. She must present herself as boring but friendly and forthcoming. It wouldn’t do to antagonize the Press or to seem as if she were hiding anything. “And we met at work. Not this clinic, of course; I changed jobs about a year ago. It was an office romance. How commonplace can you get, really?”

 

“But isn’t it true,” the reporter persisted, “that your husband and Sherlock Holmes solved the mystery of your father’s disappearance? Something the government had failed to do over ten years ago?”

 

Damn. The girl had done her homework. “Well, yes, they did a bit,” she admitted reluctantly. “But John and I had already known each other for about a year at the time. It isn’t as if we met on a case.”

 

“And you’ve been helping them solve cases ever since,” the reporter concluded, looking at her notes. 

 

What else did she have in those notes? It was alarming to think about. “Ah, no, no. I don’t work with them. Occasionally I tag along and watch, that’s all,” Mary tried to keep her tone monotonous and boring. “I have a full-time job of my own. I love being a doctor, and I enjoy working here. I would be quite willing to tell you some stories about my work in the clinic, although I expect you’ll find me quite tedious.” 

 

The reporter completely ignored this offer. “There’s a case someone at NSY told me about in which you not only ‘tagged along’ to a murder scene, but discovered the cause of death, built a replica of the murder weapon from common household items, and demonstrated how the murder took place by shooting a dart through a second story window,” the reporter read from the notes in her lap. She then looked up to see Mary’s reaction.

 

She thought fast. “Well, that was rather a fluke. John and I were on our way out to dinner when he was called in on the case, so I just went with him. It was purely coincidental that I happened to have some experience with the weapon involved. It isn’t something that happens frequently at all. Most of my time is spent here in the clinic, or at home waiting for them to finish a case.” Mary tried to look as unexciting as possible. She was finding “ordinary” to be a difficult target for her to hit.

 

“Which brings us to my next question: what is it like, living with Sherlock Holmes? It must be incredibly interesting,” the reported transitioned smoothly. Mary mentally rolled her eyes and tried not to lose her smile.

 

“I wouldn’t really know, would I?” she said carefully. “I don’t live with him. John and I have our own flat.” She hesitated, then added. “. . . in an undisclosed location.” 

 

“But you’ve been seen entering and exiting Mr. Holmes’ flat at 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Watson,” the reporter insisted suggestively. “On numerous occasions.”

 

Well, this was annoying. Here she had carefully taken Alternate Route F (because of the rain) all the way in to work that morning to avoid being seen. Perhaps Alternate Route D with Amendment 2 would have worked? “I visit him, of course,” Mary sighed a bit impatiently. “He’s a good friend of mine, after all. He visits us, as well. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

 

The reporter was a bit taken aback by Mary’s tone, but didn’t let it stop her. “And your involvement in this case in Cornwall? You were Mr. Holmes’ travelling companion and assisted him at the crime scenes,” the persistent woman went on.

 

Mary took a deep breath and tried a verbal barrage. “John is out of town at an important medical conference. Sherlock knows that I am as capable of offering medical opinions as my husband and asked me if I would do him the favour of helping him out. As I said, he is a good friend. And that is what friends do, isn’t it? Friends help each other, don’t they?” She paused for greater impact, then continued. “But speaking of the medical conference, there’s a story worthy of newsprint. I feel this medical conference should have a good deal more press than it’s been getting,” she deflected.

 

The two women’s eyes met and did battle for several breathless seconds, neither wanting to back down. At last, the reporter’s eyes returned to her notebook, her lips tight.

 

“So you deny taking part in your husband’s detective work?”

 

“Unequivocally. I am an ordinary doctor and I work in this clinic,” Mary said firmly, “and that’s all I am.” And there it was. Her first outright lie. It was obvious the reporter was not buying it, but they were now at an impasse. A change of subject was called for.

 

And so the reporter took a deep breath and plunged on. “There has been a good deal of speculation over the years as to your husband’s relationship to Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Watson. So what my readers would really like to know is this: how did you come to realize that John Watson isn’t really gay?”

 

That brought an end to Mary’s composure. After a second of surprise, she dropped her head into her hand and couldn’t stop laughing for a full minute. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she gasped at last, regaining control. “I realize this is . . . significant to some people. It’s just that, my worry when I was first getting to know John was his rakish reputation as a womanizer.”

 

The reporter, who had at first been alarmed by Mary’s excessive amusement, now simply looked disappointed. “So Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are just. . . .”

 

“Friends. I’m sorry if that’s not exciting enough for your public,” Mary smiled, forgetting to be dull. “But you know, friendship is every bit as important and significant and necessary to life as romance. Good friends are hard to come by in this world, and when you find one, you should cherish him or her and be properly grateful.”

 

000

 

“I’m afraid you weren’t very successful in convincing this reporter that you’re dull and ordinary,” John said on the phone the next morning. “This article makes you appear quite like your charming self.”

 

“Yes, well,” Mary sighed. “I gave it my best shot. I’m just not very good at being boring, I suppose. And all the information she dug up from some source in Scotland Yard worked against me.”

 

“Never mind, love. You can’t help being fascinating, can you?” John smiled affectionately.

 

“It’s my curse,” Mary agreed, resigned.


	9. Punching Percival Pratt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Press get wind of Mary's existence. How do our heroes appear in the eyes of a feverishly romantic young tabloid reporter who is bent on making his name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not be put off this story by the quality of the opening news article. It's meant to be awful!

THE MYSTERIOUS MRS WATSON  
By Percival Pratt

Unless you’ve been living in a cave for the past several years, you are surely aware of the existence of a self-defined “Consulting Detective” called Sherlock Holmes and his personal biographer/physician/assistant Dr John Watson. These two have been in headline after headline, solving impossible crimes, saving peoples’ lives, “dying” and returning to life. You name it: if it’s sensational, this duo is in the thick of it.

But until two weeks ago, had anyone heard of this mysterious third party? Apparently, Dr Watson ran off and got married nearly a year ago and no one seemed to notice. And Holmes gets an equal share of the domestic bliss, if rumours are to be believed. If it were not for some indiscretions on their part, the public might still be ignorant of this development in the lives of the internet detective and his faithful blogger.

The silence was broken about two weeks ago when Watson’s wife travelled with Holmes to Cornwall on what seemed to be a working holiday: a murder investigation conducted from the comfort of a cosy, picturesque, one-bedroom seaside cottage. The discretion of the police in that area was not as easily bought by our heroes as that of Scotland Yard, it seems, and the secret was out. Mrs Watson promptly gave a fairly uninformative, exclusive interview the next day to my fellow-reporter, Gwen Stacey—an unsatisfying interview which left the public with more questions than answers concerning this enigmatic young woman who has apparently captured the hearts of the famous detective duo.

This is why I set out two weeks ago to remedy this vacuum of information and have turned up some useful facts. Unable to discover the Watsons’ home address, I determined to at least find out the address of Mrs Watson’s employer. Mary Watson is a general practitioner in the Health Centre on 17 Marylebone Road here in central London. Although our esteemed colleague, Ms Stacey, saw fit to withhold this information, I feel the Dr Mrs Watson’s patients deserve to know just who it is they are entrusting with their healthcare. She trained at King’s, I was told, and is considered by her colleagues to be a caring and competent physician.

But here is a juicy bit that perhaps even the great Sherlock Holmes does not know. Mary Watson has been seen frequenting a Pret A Manger on Bressenden Place in the company of a tall, handsome stranger. What will Holmes and Watson do when they discover these trysts between their woman and another man? Is the “ménage a’ trois” about to become a foursome? Or will their inexplicable fascination with this mysterious young woman come to a messy end? This reporter is determined to find out!

Percy Pratt sat back in his chair and regarded his copy of the tabloid with some satisfaction. His editor had been pleased with his article and had promised Percy a hefty rise in pay sometime in the near future if he could make good on the promise for more on the Watson woman. 

Which was why Percy was here, sitting at a table just outside the Pret A Manger on Bressenden Place, watching the entrance like a cat at a mouse hole. It was a clear, spring day, only a bit on the chilly side, pleasant for sitting. But for the past two weeks his investigation of the Watson woman had brought him here in all weathers as he followed her about in her everyday routines, as this seemed to be a frequent meeting place for her and her friends. Once she had met another young woman, a pathologist called Molly, and once she had met the elderly housekeeper of Holmes’—both desperately uninteresting. 

But on two separate occasions, Mary Watson had met this tall, handsome, silver-haired mystery man for coffee and sandwiches. They had talked and laughed for at least an hour each time and seemed to have quite a rapport. The stranger looked old enough to be Mary’s father; but then John Watson was no youngster himself. Mary obviously had a predilection for older men. 

If Percy had not known better, to be honest, their affection for one another might have looked more like a father/daughter relationship than that of two guilty lovers. In fact, he had overheard Mary call the man ‘Papa’ at one point-- but Percy was not fooled. Gwen Stacey had revealed in her initial interview with Mary Watson that the woman was an orphan with no family at all to speak of. And Percy was a man of the world. He knew that loving, non-familial relationships did not exist unless sex was involved in some way. Close platonic friendships did not happen in the real world—and anyway, if such friendships did exist, they would not be interesting to the reading public. Sex sells, and so sex there must be!

So Percy had arrived at the Pret before dawn, knowing that his article would come out that morning and that Mary Watson and her secret lover would certainly have to meet to discuss how to deal with it. The day stretched on and the lunch rush arrived and ebbed, and still Percy remained at his post, munching at a sandwich as slowly as possible and sipping conservatively at a coffee long gone cold. He was nothing if not dedicated to the truth, even to the detriment of his own comforts.

At last something happened, but not at all what Percy had imagined. Swooping up the pavement towards the sandwich shop, signature long coat flapping like a superhero’s cape, was Sherlock Holmes himself. Dressed entirely in black, he seemed appropriately to be in mourning, Percy thought. The detective settled at the table nearest Percy, eyes turned down as he studied his phone with a frown. 

Moments later Dr John Watson appeared, wearing a black Barbour jacket, black jeans, and a grim expression. He threw a newspaper down on Holmes’ table with a great whap! and sat in the chair across from his friend. Percy Pratt felt the news gods smiling down on him. Could he have possibly had better luck? His excitement mounted as he quickly switched to a chair next to the half-column projecting from the building, which offered him some concealment. Holmes was facing him, his aspect inscrutable. Watson’s back was towards him, and yet the emotions the doctor was experiencing were as apparent as if one could see his expressive face. His posture was military-straight, his shoulders tensed, and he bristled with indignation.

“Lestrade’s on the way,” Holmes informed his colleague without looking up from his phone.

“So is Mary,” Watson replied tersely. 

Percy’s interest grew. Was this ‘Lestrade’ the mysterious lover? Would there be a confrontation, then? Right in front of Percy’s waiting eyes? Perhaps there would be a fist fight! Or at least a shouting match! The reporter readied his phone to record whatever might befall.

“You’ve read this, I suppose,” Watson was saying, his voice hard and brittle with ice.

“A lot of nonsense,” Holmes returned, lifting his eyes to his friend’s at last. “But dangerous all the same.” His stone-cold eyes reflected Watson’s frosty tone.

“She’s turned in her notice today, of course, but she’ll have to finish out the month whilst they look for a replacement,” Watson’s voice ground out angrily. “In the meantime, she and everyone working there is in danger from everyone in London with a grudge against us.” 

“Everyone on earth with a grudge against us,” Holmes corrected him. “This tabloid is available on the internet as well.” 

Percy jumped when Watson’s fist smashed into the table like a war hammer. The reporter ducked back behind his protective projection, gasping.

“If anything happens to her because of this man’s idiotic arrogance, I won’t be responsible for what I do to him,” Watson growled. “I wish I could have him here right now! I’d be happy to give that Pratt a piece of my mind!”

Holmes looked half startled and half amused. “Why, John! You’ve such a talent for colourful and creative expletives—I’m shocked you only call the man a prat,” he grinned maliciously.

Percy could not see Watson’s face, but he was certain the doctor must have rolled his eyes heavenward. “Percival Pratt is the idiot’s name, Sherlock. Not an inappropriate one, at that. But if I’d been his mother, I’d have called him . . . .”

Percy’s face grew blistering hot from the colourful and creative expletives which Watson used to describe him, and his ears very nearly caught fire. But, he supposed, it was normal for the messenger to suffer for the anger the message brings. When this Lestrade fellow arrives, Percy thought, all this rage will be heaped on the right man!

Holmes had the effrontery to laugh, albeit bitterly. “That’s more like the John Watson I know!” he said. “I’ve spoken to Mycroft this morning, and he agrees with you, in more well-bred terms! He assured me he will increase security in the compromised areas.

“But of course, we’ll have to keep our sentiments to ourselves,” the detective continued in a soothing near-monotone. “The best thing we can do now is refuse to rise to the bait. If we respond in any way, we only prolong Mary’s exposure to the public. By lying low, we can depend on the fickle and fleeting nature of the common person’s interest to wane. They will forget all about Mary Watson in a month’s time, or less, if we keep a low profile.”

Watson sighed loudly. “I’m going in to order coffees for us all.” He rose and walked to the door slowly, as a man weighed down with care.

“Good idea,” Holmes encouraged his colleague. “Standing in a queue will calm you down.”

This time, Percy could see the doctor’s eloquent eye-roll for himself.

It had been a mistake, he considered a moment later, to have let his gaze follow Watson to the door instead of keeping watch on Holmes. Sudden and silent as Percy imagined a Ninja might be, the detective was beside him. How had the man moved without Percy’s notice? And yet, there he was, looking down on Percy, expressionless.

“Do you make a habit of listening in on other people’s conversations, Mr Pratt?” Holmes inquired mildly. “Oh, yes, of course you do. It’s your job, isn’t it? Prying into the private affairs of perfect strangers. What a noble profession.”

It took Percy a moment to pull himself together. “I, uh, well. Mr Holmes. A pleasure to meet you, sir,” he stuttered at last. “What a coincidence that we should both be here today, eh?”

“The universe is rarely that lazy,” Holmes replied enigmatically.

Percy had no idea what that statement could mean. He pressed on, trying to make the most of this turn of events. Clandestinely witnessing the confrontation between the Watsons, Holmes, and the mysterious Lestrade was now not an option. But perhaps he could salvage the situation. 

“Mr Holmes, since we’re both here anyway, how about giving the readers a reaction to the article that came out in this morning’s paper?” he said hopefully, holding out his phone to record Holmes’ every word.

Holmes looked down at the phone with a slight frown but did not object. “I found the article . . . annoying,” he replied.

“Annoying?” Percy was disappointed. He had hoped for a more detailed response. “Just . . . annoying?”

Holmes looked at Percy, his strange eyes glittering with something like malice. The reporter had a nervous feeling he ought to have been satisfied with ‘annoying.’

Holmes’ mouth opened and words poured out like a torrent. “The so-called ‘report’ was entirely inaccurate, based on little more than vapid rumour and ill-conceived conjecture and, apparently, a criminal case of stalking my friend everywhere she went. The prose is trite, lurid and juvenile; the grammar questionable—I’m shocked it had your editor’s approval. And your irresponsible release of Mary’s place of work has put her in danger and has caused no end of difficulties. We have had to take special measures to ensure her safety and the safety of those around her. She was forced to give notice and will not be able to seek employment anywhere else for some time—not until this furore over her existence has died down. So, yes, I found the article annoying.”

Percy felt as if his hair had been blown back by a strong wind, the words blasting over him like a hurricane. When Holmes fell silent, though, he straightened and took his courage in both hands. He would get to the juicy bits of this story if it killed him. 

“But tell the truth, Mr Holmes, aren’t you really just annoyed because you didn’t know that Mary Watson is seeing this other man?” he ventured. Holmes raised an eyebrow, but Percy ploughed on, oblivious to the danger signs. “Perhaps you did know about him. Perhaps you and Watson are open-minded and into wife-swapping and all that. But perhaps she’s just playing you two for fools. Perhaps she is just a . . . .”

The next words which came out of Percy Pratt’s mouth were cause for his immediate regret. For the words he used to describe Mary Watson caused his face to explode and he found himself falling backwards onto the pavement with alacrity. 

“No one speaks that way about Mary,” he heard Holmes’ calm, firm voice through the ringing in his ears, and then the world blanked out.

000

“Sherlock! What the holy hell?” 

Percy was brought out his brief stupor by the sound of Dr Watson’s return. Gentle, experienced hands checked his face for broken bones while a soothing, professional voice spoke with calm assurance. Percy opened his eyes, realizing as he did so that one of them was rapidly swelling shut, and looked into Watson’s kindly face.

“Does it hurt anywhere else?” the doctor was saying, and Percy shook his head slowly. A pen-sized torch had appeared in Watson’s hand like a conjuring trick, and the doctor was checking Percy’s pupils and hmm-ing to himself.

“You’re all right,” Watson assured him at last. “Nothing broken. No concussion. Just bruised.” He then turned his head towards his companion and said, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on here?”

The detective hovered into Percy’s line of sight, just behind the doctor. “This is Percival Pratt,” Sherlock Holmes glowered darkly. Dressed entirely in black, he reminded Percy uncomfortably of the angel of death. 

The doctor’s kindly face froze instantly into an iron mask, his lips pressing together in a thin line. His eyes blazed, Percy thought, like the blue flames of the pilot light in a kitchen range. Slowly, Watson rose to his full height, which was not considerable and yet he seemed to tower over Percy in a most menacing way, fists clenching and unclenching. The reporter was suddenly reminded that Dr Watson was also Captain Watson, formerly of Her Majesty’s Royal Army. And Captain Watson looked at that moment to be the most dangerous man Percy had ever met. Percy lay as still as possible and tried to look pathetic and harmless.

“The Percival Pratt who just trashed Mary in the tabloids this morning?” Captain John Watson asked quietly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“The very one,” Holmes confirmed. Percy held his breath and braced himself, waiting.

“Did we not,” Watson mused, aggrieved, to his friend without taking his eyes from Percy’s, “only moments ago, agree that we should not retaliate in any way for this article of his?”

“We did,” Holmes nodded.

“Did we not,” Watson continued, “decide that any response on our behalf would only prolong Mary’s exposure to the public?”

“Yes.” Holmes seemed to shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“In fact,” Watson concluded sharply, “we agreed to completely ignore this . . . Pratt . . . entirely, yeah?”

Holmes nodded, although he was standing behind Watson and only Percy could see it.

“Then why is it, the moment my back is turned, you punch him in the face without even considering the fact that I might have liked to have done it myself, if it were to be done at all?” Watson demanded.

“It was unintentional,” Holmes explained indignantly. “He . . . disparaged Mary and my fist just flew into his face of its own accord, like a reflex.”

“Oh,” Watson turned to his friend, finally releasing Percy from his fiery gaze. “Well, I’d have done the same, I imagine. What did he say about her to cause such a reaction?”

Holmes grimaced and looked at the pavement. “It . . . doesn’t bear repeating,” he murmured, and turned away. He picked up one of the cups of coffee Watson had brought out with him and sipped defensively.

Percy had thought to sit up, but now Watson turned upon him again with those fierce, blue eyes. “What the hell did you call my wife that was so heinous that Sherlock Holmes, the King of Insults, cannot bring himself to repeat it?” he asked through clenched teeth.

Percy looked at the doctor’s enraged expression and dared not answer. Instead, he stammered, “I’m calling the police. . . .you can’t attack me in the street this way. . . .” and he fumbled for his mobile.

“No need to trouble with a call—I’m a police officer,” a gravelly voice from behind Percy’s head declared. The voice sounded ripe with authority and strength. Percy felt faint with relief. An officer of the law was here to rescue him! He again began to raise himself to a sitting position, preparing to meet his saviour.

“Lestrade. About time you arrived,” Holmes growled over his shoulder, still keeping his back towards Percy. 

“What’s the story here, John?” the police officer asked, stepping over to stand by the doctor’s side and into the reporter’s line of sight. Percy recognize him at once— Mary Watson’s secret lover!

The reporter’s hopes were dashed in an instant. Mary’s mystery man was a police officer? And he was on first name basis with Mary’s husband? This did not bode well. Percy lay back down and tried to look helpless and small.

“This is Percival Pratt,” Watson said flatly, waving a disparaging hand in the reporter’s direction.

“The Percival Pratt who just placed our Mary’s life in jeopardy?” The man called Lestrade narrowed his eyes and glared down at the reporter.

Percy had heard of lethal looks that could slay a man, but he had always thought it to be hyperbole. Now he understood the truth of the saying. And the copper had said, ‘our Mary’! Percy’s heart sank down into the pavement beneath him. There would be no justice done here today—not by these three!

“Still, you oughtn’t to have punched him, John,” Lestrade observed. “No matter how much better it made you feel.”

“I didn’t punch him,” Watson said bitterly. “I didn’t even get to see it done. I was in the shop at the time. By the way, I bought you a coffee.”

Lestrade picked out one of the cups sitting on the very table Percy had been ensconced at all of that long day. “Sherlock?” the copper asked. “What happened?”

“It wasn’t intentional,” Holmes insisted, keeping his back turned. “If it had been intentional, I’d have broken his jaw,” he added darkly.

“He says this Pratt said something derogatory about Mary and he was so shocked he just lashed out without thinking,” Watson explained. “But he can’t bring himself to repeat what was said.”

Wonder filled the copper’s face. “What the hell could you have said,” he demanded of Percy, “that could render a sociopath speechless with emotion?”

Percy was also rendered speechless. How could he safely answer that question? He was rescued from having to reply by a voice approaching from behind. 

“Good lord! What’s happened?” Mary Watson cried out in dismay. She dropped to her knees beside Percy and touched his face with gentle hands. “Are you all right?” she asked with concern.

“He’s fine. I checked him out thoroughly,” her husband said impatiently. “This is Percival Pratt.”

“I don’t care if he’s Attila the Hun! Why is he lying on the pavement with you lot lurking over him like a flock of vultures?” Mary exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be public servants! What happened?”

“Well, you know, he’s the reporter who wrote that article about you in this morning’s paper,” Lestrade explained lamely.

“So you punched him?” Mary was shocked.

“No, I didn’t punch him!” Lestrade was hurt. “I’ve only just arrived, and am trying to investigate this incident.”

Mary rose to her feet. “Oh, Captain, did you let your temper get the better of you?” she sighed sympathetically, taking his hand. 

“I didn’t punch him, either. Regrettably, I was in the shop at the time,” her husband assured her. 

“Sherlock?” Mary asked, looking at the back of the detective, but Holmes did not respond. “Well, for heaven’s sake, Captain! You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Why don’t you get some ice for the patient’s eye?” Watson sighed and disappeared from view.

“And you!” she turned on Lestrade. “Why would an officer of the law allow a citizen to lie on the pavement for hours? Help me get him up.” 

Percy felt himself being lifted, one large, strong and rather ungentle pair of hands on one side and one small and careful pair on the other. They settled him onto the chair in which he’d been sat all that day, waiting for these very people. His ears roared with the effort and his face throbbed. “Thank you,” he groaned. 

“Now, let’s get to the bottom of this,” Mary said calmly. She stood with her back to the sun, which lit up her blond hair so that it nearly glowed, making a veritable halo about her head. Percy was struck by her kind, blue eyes and patient look.

“It was unintentional,” Holmes said stolidly over his shoulder.

“This Pratt said something about you that so incensed Sherlock that he reacted without thinking,” Lestrade explained helpfully. They both looked at the detective, who refused to turn around or engage them.

“Oh, but I’m sure this is all just a terrible misunderstanding, isn’t it?” Mary soothed. “You never meant to say anything derogatory about me, did you, Mr Pratt? You never meant me any harm at all.”

Percy, his eyes round and mouth slightly open, shook his head dazedly.

“And Sherlock didn’t mean to punch you—you heard him say it was unintentional. He must have misheard what you said, I imagine,” Mary continued in her mesmerizing voice. “But you see, Mr Pratt, this article of yours has the boys all in a dither. Publishing my place of work, you know, was not a safe thing to do, and they worry about me. But you didn’t know it was unkind when you wrote it, did you? Of course, you didn’t. You’d never do anything harmful or unkind, I’m sure.”

Percy shook his head again, entranced by Mary’s tone. Watson reappeared with an ice pack from the Pret’s kitchen and Mary gently applied it to Percy’s aching face.

“Here’s the problem, Mr Pratt,” Mary went on. “I was kidnapped only a few months ago, and held with a gun to my head, by some men who held a grudge against Sherlock and John. I was nearly killed! They live in dread of that happening again. You understand, don’t you, Mr Pratt?”

Percy did. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to take back his rash article which had placed this understanding angel in such danger. He thought of Sir Percival of legend, for whom he had been named by a romantic mother; the knight in shining armour had dedicated his life to protecting others. Percy now felt ashamed that he had placed his own career and advancement ahead of the safety of this lovely young woman.

Percy found himself apologizing for his selfishness and promising to print a retraction as soon as may be. He also swore not only to refrain from printing articles about Mary Watson in future but to encourage his colleagues to leave her alone as well. He was then bundled into a cab and sent off to his home, feeling better about himself than he had in years.

“What was I thinking, calling Mary Watson a heartless opportunist? No wonder Holmes clocked me,” he thought earnestly. “I would punch me, too, were I him.”

000

Mary and John and Sherlock and Greg sat at the table outside of the Pret a Manger and finished their coffees, having seen the last of Percival Pratt.

“Well, that went well,” John observed dryly. “You certainly went off-script, Sherlock. I thought you’d lost the plot entirely.”

“Yes, Sweetheart, you weren’t meant to punch the man. You three were just to put the fear of god into him a bit, so I could rescue him from you,” Mary chided gently.

“I told you, it was unintentional,” Sherlock groused. 

“You salvaged the day, though, Mary. Just by being yourself!” Greg praised, and Mary blushed a bit.

“I thought you poured it on rather thick, myself,” John chuckled. “But he bought it, didn’t he?”

“Let’s get out of here,” Sherlock said, throwing his cup away. “I think I never want to see a Pret again! What a dismal place! Why, of all the public places in London, Mary, did you have to keep leading the man here?”

“I like this Pret a Manger!” Mary declared. “And I certainly wasn’t going to lead him to places we generally frequent, was I? The nerve of that silly muppet, anyway,” she added cheerfully, “thinking he could follow me around for two weeks without my ever noticing.” She chuckled good-naturedly and joined her menfolk in walking towards Greg’s car.

“But what did he say that set you off, Sherlock?” Greg insisted as they walked along together.

“Yeah, Sherlock, what could he have said that was so horrible it had you rattled?” John wondered.

The detective looked at the pavement stonily. “He said Mary was ‘heartless,’” he admitted reluctantly.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” Mary laughed affectionately, hugging his arm; but the other two nodded in accord with their friend. They knew they, too, would have punched Percival Pratt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to the management of the Pret a Manger on Bressenden Place, where I spent many a happy hour a number of years ago.


End file.
